Twenty minutes later, he parked the rented car, crossed the sidewalk, punched the bell.
"Dick? Darling?"
He ran up. He was still holding Nan when the phone rang.
Johnny went home after all, and the phone was ringing as he got there.
"She couldn't have died!" he exploded, when Dorothy's voice had told him.
"The doctor says—it sometimes happens—to a sick and tired heart." Dorothy was crying.
Johnny's mind was churning. Why, he had just seen Emily! Could not tell the girls what Emily had said to him. Wasn't free to tell them, yet. He didn't want to be a man keeping a stubborn secret and the girls trying to guess what it was. He wouldn't put them or himself in that position. Could not even say he'd seen her.
But how could she have died!
"Look, Dotty," he said, "would you like the loan of my mother?"
'Dick is here," Dorothy sobbed, "but I think . . . Oh, Johnny, we could use her."
So Johnny hung up, dashed out, roared down two blocks to the Miller's house, rousted his parents out of their bridge game.
"I'll take you in, Barbara," his father said. "You go on home with John now. Pack. I'll explain to the Millers."
Johnny said, "Wait. I want you both to remember—you don't know a thing about the hospital calling me tonight."
"You saw Emily, Johnny?"
"Yes, but you mustn't say so. Mind, now."
"Why not?"
"Because Emily asked me to do something. Secretly.''
"You are still going to do it?" his mother asked tearfully, "now that she . . . ?"
"Of course, I'm going to do it," said Johnny fiercely. "I said I would."
CHAPTER 4
Johnny was acquainted with one of the chaplains at the prison, a man they called Father Klein. Johnny had talked with him about a convict there, in the course of doing research for Roderick Grimes. So, by ten o'clock the next morning, Johnny was in the chaplain's little office, throwing himself upon the man's mercy.
"You'd like me to tell him about his sister's death?" asked Father Klein.
"I've got to see him myself," said Johnny. "She sent me on a—a mission. Can you help me?"
"Is it about his daughter?" asked the chaplain promptly.
"It is." Johnny felt surprise.
"Then I'll fetch him. Would it be better if I told him about Miss Editli?"
"Edithr
"I believe she called herself Emily."
/ changed all the names. I luid to. Johnny remembered. "I wish you would," he said gratefully, and then he waited.
For Nan's father.
Johnny had not seen the girls last evening. Had not met this Richardson Bartee. First he must find out what to do from Nan's father.
At last the chaplain returned with a small thin white-haired man, who looked very frail. He had a limp, Johnny saw. His skin was papery white. There was something uncanny about the face. It was serene.
"John Sims? I have heard of you," this man said in a soft cultivated voice. "From my sister. And now she's gone?"
"It was her heart. I'm sorry, sir."
"She was good," the man said. Johnny had not heard that word used just that way for a long, long time, if ever. "How is my Polly?" the man asked.
"I beg your pardon."
"Mary. I mean Nan, Her name is Mary. I used to call her Polly—when I was young and she was only one or two. 'Polly McCauley' I used to call her. Silly little rhyme. Christy never liked it."
"She's—she's sad, of course. My mother's with .her.", Johnny found ^mself floundering. The avalanche of unfamiliar designations confused him. Nor did he know this man or understand him or believe in him, one way or the other.
"Would you like me to leave you?" the chaplain asked, sensing some kind of hesitation..
"Just a minute, sir." Johnny grasped for hefp. "I think you'd better stay. He may need an older friend than I—"
"Please stay. Father Klein," said the prisoner mildly. "What is the trouble?"
Johnny didn't know how he was going to say what the ti-ouble was. He began slowly. "You knew Miss Emily went ofi^ on a trip. I'm sorry, I can't call her , . ,"
The little man smiled faintly. "Yes, I know," he said. "I was glad. She never did things for herself .... Dear, good Emily. Where was it that she died?"
"Why it was here." The little man did not react with surprise. He seemed detached, as if distances and places in the outside world were simply rumors to him. Johnny plunged aliead, "Emily did leave, some ten weeks ago, I
think. Took ship through the Panama Canal, spent time in New York, and then in London. She got as far as Paris. From there she flew back."
The prisoner was listening courteously.
"Nan had met a man and fallen in love and got engaged to be married," said Johnny in a rush.
A faint smile came to McCauley's lips.
"She phoned Emily to tell her. That's why Emily flew home. Mr. McCauley, please remember that I don't know anything about all this. Except what Emily told me and— asked me to do. The man," Johnny's voice almost stuck in his throat, "the man Nan wants to marry is named Richardson Bartee."
Clinton McCauley's face grew thinner. The cheeks hollowed. The lines tightened. The serenity was destroyed.
"He is from Hestia, California. He is thirty-two years old. His family has a vineyard. Miss Emily wanted you to say what is to be done."
The man's head was going forward and down. Father Klein sprang to get him a glass of water. The chaplain's lips were tight.
McCauley gulped water. He said in a whimper, "Must it be?" He turned his face up toward Johnny and whispered, "Must I stand for this too?" The prisoner, with white fingers clamped to the edge of Father Klein's desk began to talk. "Listen to me. I know many a man in prison will say he's innocent. I know it's so general a thing, it doesn't meet belief. But I never killed my own Christy! I was convicted. I understand that. I was convicted by society for other things society didn't like about me. And I have borne it. But how can I bear this! It was Dick Bartee who killed my v^dfe!"
"So Emily said," Johnny croaked. The burst of pain from behind that mask was a shocking thing. "She said there was no way to prove it . . .'^
"How can I let him have my little girl?"
Johnny leaned back and felt the sympathy leave him suddenly. "Don't let him have her," he said crisply. "Tell her about all of it. That will fix that."
"Yes," said Clinton McCauley. "Yes." He looked at the chaplain. "What will it do to her? To find out her mother was brutally killed. To find out her father's an old jailbird.
To find the man she . . ." He looked at Jolinny. "She-cares for tliis man?"
"Yes," said Johnny. "I doubt if she'd promise to marry him if she didn't." Johnny couldn't analyze what made him so tart. Clinton McCauley made him uneasy. Johnny didn't like a mart\T-type.
The little mim put his fingers to his temples. "What is right?"
"Listen," said Johnny, "aren't you missing the point here? If this Dick Bartee ever killed anybody then Nan mustn't marry him. This has absolutely nothing to do with you or your conscience or what you have to bear." He stopped, embarrassed. "I'm sorry . . ."
"The boy is right," the chaplain said gravely.
"What can be the meaning of an accident hke this?^ McCauley half-whispered. "That she should meet this man— of all men—"
"What makes you think Bartee is guilty?" Johnny asked bluntly.
"He must have done it," said McCauley. "For seventeen years I have believed . . ."
"And you may have been wrong for seventeen years,'' said Johnny grimly. "But it's up to you, sir. I promised» Emily. It's yoii? decision."
CHnton McCauley began to beat his hands softly on the desk and Johnny watched. Suspiciously.
"Vve thought of something," said the chaplain, suddenly. "And Sims here is qualified, . too. Why don'jt you ask him to check for you?"
"Check?" said McCauley.
"He's done work for Roderick Grimes. Couldn't he check the alibi?"