"When I saw how dark the place was I didn't know but what you had double-crossed me," he snorted.
"You didn't think I would have it lit up like a church, did you?"
Hawker grunted sullenly.
"Well, said the reporter casually, "here is Miss Guerney to talk that matter over with you. I suppose I get that fifteen thousand, don't I?"
The other took his copy of the Star from a pocket, and tossed it to Suggs.
"Look at that," he said thickly. "I'm broke — haven't a penny in the world. But don't you worry. After I inherit old Guerney's money I'll double your stake."
"What do you mean?" demanded the girl.
Hawker focussed her with his red-rimmed eyes. "I had a hundred thousand dollars in the Cathedral Bank — my share of the money that Jones and I blackmailed out of old fools like Vanderduynck and Castleton. It went broke, and took every penny I own. But I'm going to get Guerney's money — when you're out of the way — ain't I, Suggs? So we're going to get rid of you very politely. I didn't know if I could trust Suggs at first, but my nerve was gone, and I couldn't put anything over alone. So we're going to kill you together — kill you the way Jones and Guerney and the Pa yak were killed."
He fumbled in his hip pocket for a weapon.
Before his fingers had closed on the butt, Johnny leaped forward, and the knuckles of his right fist caught the chauffeur on the mouth. Hawker reeled back, spluttering an oath through his bleeding lips.
Before Hawker had recovered his balance the dining-room door opened and closed, and Jamieson stood with his broad back against it. The blue coat and brass buttons startled Hawker into instant sobriety. He glared around like a trapped wild beast. A deadly fear was stamped on his bloodless face.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.
"It means that we've caught the murderer of Strickland Guerney," said the police lieutenant importantly. "You should know that you couldn't deceive us, clever as you are."
"I didn't kill Guerney, before God I didn't?"
"No? Who did, then?"
"Jones did it. He planned it all, and carried it out himself. I helped him with his alibi, that was all. His date with Daisy Graelis — the ride through the park — everything was done to cover up his time. The only bit unaccounted for by anyone but me was between one-fifteen, when the traffic officer in the park recognized us, and two-thirty when Jones went to Miss Graelis' apartment. He disguised himself in overalls and a slouch hat, smeared himself with soot, and let himself in through the areaway.
"He had a key to the old man's study — let himself in. There were only a few words exchanged; then Jones shot him with an automatic, equipped with a silencer."
"Why? Old Guerney gave him lots of money."
"It was Guerney's daughter. Jones learned that she was in town. He heard that the old man had decided on a reconciliation, and he knew that he would have to act quickly to prevent the will from being changed."
"Then you killed Jones," charged Jamieson, his ruddy face deepening in color.
Johnny laughed. "You're wrong again, lieutenant. He did not kill Jones."
The officer scowled. "How do you figure that out?"
The reported waved a hand toward Hawker's shrunken body. "Jones was killed before the Dayak. I know because I was in that room, and found her body. He was a fairly large man — weighed at least one hundred, and seventy pounds. Do you imagine for an instant that Hawker could have lifted that body and jammed it up into the chimney the way we found it? It took a tremendously strong man to do that, and one who had a rather primitive way of hiding his crimes. It's my guess that Tama Aping killed Mr. Jones, and that Hawker, in turn, finished the Dayak. Am I right, Hawker?"
The chauffeur gave him a malignant glance, but evidently concluded that he could best help himself by making a clean breast of everything.
"I did kill the Dayak, but it was in self-defense," he said hoarsely. "He had murdered Jones, and hid himself — I don't know where. He probably mistook Jones for Guerney, whom he hated, and then, frightened, crammed the body up the chimney. I had followed Jones to the house. When he didn't come out I entered. The Dayak made for me with that murderous knife of his — so I shot him. That isn't murder, Lieutenant. You can't do anything to me for that."
Jamieson laughed savagely. "Perhaps not, but you're a bad egg, Hawker — a bad egg — just as rotten in your heart as Guerney was. But you conspired to kill his daughter, and you've confessed to blackmailing a number of prominent men, so if you wiggle out of the penalty for killing that greasy Dayak you're going to do time on those other charges. Take him away, O'Toole. The wagon is waiting outside."
There was a clink of steel as the handcuffs circled the chauffeur's wrists. He gave Johnny a murderous glance from his bloodshot eyes, and walked out beside the detective.
Lieutenant Jamieson rubbed his thick, damp palms. "Well, I flatter myself that we put that over rather cleverly, eh, Suggs? You know, for a bit, I was worried — what with Mullaney getting away last month, and all—"
The reporter smothered a smile. Hidden by the folds of Mildred's dress, he was holding the girl's hand, and a wonderful feeling of content suffused him. He did not particularly desire any credit for snaring a criminal. He had succeeded in what he set out to do. That was sufficient.
"Yes, pretty cleverly," repeated Jamieson meaningly.
"Oh, yes," said Johnny, turning away, "the police of this town aren't to be hood winked, and tomorrow the Star will give all due credit to Police Lieutenant Jamieson. And now, Mildred — er — Miss Guerney—"
Her hand tightened on his,
"Call me Mildred — as long as you like," she whispered.
(The End)
The Choice
by Eugene Guillaume
He hesitatingly walked up the broad stone steps. He was not yet used to the silent dignity of the hospital atmosphere.
Inside he took off his soft hat, crushed it in his hand, and instinctively softened his footfalls as he stepped to the information desk.
"Mrs. — el — Follis?"
The girl silently plugged in the switchboard. A question, an answer:
"Corridor B, room 8. They are waiting for you," she said.
Softly, almost on tiptoe, he walked down the long corridor, passing a nurse in the light blue, white trimmed, uniform distinctive of the hospital, turned to the right, and lightly tapped at a door on which the figure "8" appeared.
A nurse opened the door, looked at him, turned and beckoned to someone in the room.
A physician, young, alert, came to the door, glanced at him a moment, came out and closed the door behind him.
The man before him nervously moistened his lips.
The physician looked at him keenly. The man's eyes returned the look questioningly.
"The time's almost here," said the physician. "It's serious — the mother, or the baby. I've told her. She says to speak to you."
A lightning expression passed over the man's face. The physician's boring gaze noted, but did not fathom it.
"May I see her?"
"Yes — but only for a minute." The physician turned and opened the door. The man advanced haltingly in the semi-darkness to the bedside.
"John!" and two weak arms reached up and clasped him around the neck.
"The doctor says—" her voice choked "the doctor says," she whispered in weak tones in his ear, "that it is baby — or me."
A flash of pain winced her face, and she paused as it took her breath.