Target Practice (Stout, Rex), Page 4

  I can see her so now when I close my eyes.

  However, I managed to retain my professional sense as I ushered her into the inner office and placed for her the chair before the desk. She sank into it with a murmured “Thank you,” and then, as I seated myself beside her, I saw her gaze light upon the picture.

  As I have said, her conduct was very nearly perfection. When the first rush of conscious thought returned—after the inevitable shock produced by the picture—I could observe none of the signs which I had come to regard as unfavorable.

  There was no tightening of the lips, no dilation of the nostrils, no widening of the eyelids. It is true that I missed the most important moment, as immediately after her glance of curiosity at myself, I had become suddenly aware of the fact that I was holding a lighted cigar in my hand, and turned aside to throw it in the cuspidor.

  It fell instead on the floor, and I stooped to pick it up. Thus I missed three or four valuable seconds which, however trifling they may seem to the average mind, will be recognized as all-important by the student of crime and character.

  “Now, madam,” I said gravely, turning to her, “what can I do for you?”

  She was regarding me with a look of appeal and helplessness that was well-nigh irresistible.

  “I have come,” she said in a low tone, “to ask your help. I am—I am in great trouble. As soon as I discovered—”

  “First,” I interrupted, “why do you come to me? It is usual in such cases for one to consult one’s own attorney.”

  “I know,” she said hurriedly, “but I have no one. Besides, Mr. Moorfield surely knows his own reputation too well to be surprised at such a visit as mine.”

  For the first time in my life I found a compliment a thing not to be despised. I smiled in spite of myself. When I looked up she, too, was smiling bravely through her tears.

  The story she told me I shall attempt to reproduce in her own words:

  “My name,” she began, “is Lillian Markton. I am living in New York with my uncle, William Markton, of Riverside Drive. There is nothing in particular to tell you about myself unless you care to ask questions. The whole thing is so—so absurd—”

  She hesitated, regarding me nervously.

  “Go on,” I said encouragingly.

  After a moment of silence she continued: “It happened only last night. Uncle Will came home late, looking worried and uneasy, but I thought little of it, for he has had many business troubles, and it was really nothing unusual. You know, he is cashier of the Montague Bank. Well, when I got up this morning he was nowhere to be found.

  “We usually ride in the park at seven o’clock, and after I had waited half an hour for him I went up to his room. The bed had not been disturbed. At nine o’clock I went to the bank and found”—her voice sank till it was scarcely audible—“that he had been arrested—charged with stealing fifty thousand dollars from the vaults.”

  “Was he arrested at home?” I interrupted.

  “No—at the station. He was boarding a train for Chicago.”

  “Did he have the money with him?”

  “Of course not!” Miss Markton exclaimed indignantly. “Do you think I would be here if he had?”

  “My dear madam,” I observed, “I was merely seeking information. But, after all, it is useless to question you. I must see Mr. Markton.”

  My visitor eyed me for a moment in silence.

  “That, too, is useless,” she said finally. “Mr. Markton has confessed.”

  I admit I was taken aback.

  “Confessed!” I cried. “Confessed what?”

  “To the theft.”

  “Then what the deuce do you want me for?” I demanded.

  Miss Markton rose and stood facing me.

  “Mr. Moorfield,” she said, “I came to you because I have heard you mentioned as a man who, in addition to ability, possesses both sympathy and discernment. If my informant was mistaken—”

  “But he was not,” I hastened to assure her. “Pray forgive me and proceed.”

  With a nod of thanks and approval, and after a slight hesitation, she continued:

  “My uncle’s confession was peculiar,” she said. “He admitted taking the money, but declares that he does not know where it is. It seems that the bank officials have been watching him for some time. He says that he brought the money home last night and locked it in the safe in the dining room; that when he went to get it early this morning it was gone, and that he was leaving New York with only a few dollars of his own.

  “The money has not been found. There was no one else in the house but the servants and myself—Uncle Will is a bachelor—and none of the servants could possibly have opened the safe, to which I carried a key. That is why I have come to you. I am suspected of having—stolen—”

  She suddenly gave way to sobbing, her head falling forward on the desk.

  And I, overcome by a choking sensation that was entirely new to me, and wholly uncomfortable, sat regarding her hungrily, longing to take her in my arms and comfort her. I did not understand it then, and I do not now.

  As soon as Miss Markton regained her composure she continued, speaking hurriedly and in a low tone:

  “As far as Uncle Will is concerned, he must know I am innocent. They will not let me see him. It is the bank—I suppose they believe me to be an accomplice. They—I saw—” she hesitated, her eyes full of fear and appeal. “A man followed me here to your office. What am I to do?” she cried. “I am all alone! There is no one!”

  Many times before had I heard such appeals—but they had left me unmoved and cold. Now it seemed that every fiber of my being trembled in response to this woman’s cry.

  My blood leaped and sang—I could see nothing but her tears, hear nothing but her voice. As well as I could I restrained myself; I took her hand, lying before me on the desk, and patted it gently. Words refused to come; but with that gesture I committed myself, and she felt it.

  For upward of a quarter of an hour I questioned her, but without gaining any further information. Evidently she had told me all she knew. With my businesslike assumption of responsibility she gradually grew more calm, even cheerful; and as she rose to go she glanced at the picture before her and then looked up at me curiously.

  “Someday,” she said, “you must tell me the story of that picture. It is—I can’t describe how it makes me feel.”

  She shrugged her shoulders prettily.

  “I am sure it must have a history?”

  “None whatever,” said I, smiling. “It serves merely to hide the dust.”

  “Then we must give it one. Ugh! It looks as though it might hide much more than dust.”

  I bade her good-by at the door, assuring her that everything would turn out all right, and advising her to pay no attention whatever to the man who was following her. At parting she took my hand in hers and pressed it gently. When I returned to the office I could still feel the thrill of that contact through every inch of my body.

  Once alone I attempted an analysis of the facts she had given me; but I found it impossible. Her voice, her face, her figure, filled my thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

  My dry fight had deserted me, and I found myself swimming, or struggling rather, in a sea of sentiment and emotion. Finally, angry and impatient at my inability to formulate my thoughts, I started for the Tombs to see William Markton.

  Markton received me sullenly enough, but when I told him I represented his niece, his face suddenly blazed with an almost maniacal fury. I recoiled involuntarily from his wild expression of rage and hate, while he burst forth into cursing and swearing, declaring that it was the fault of his niece that he had been caught—that she had taken the money, and that she would “pay for it in hell.”

  In vain I expostulated and argued with him—it was all to no purpose. The man seemed absolutely convinced that Lillian Markton had taken the fifty thousand dollars which he himself had stolen from the bank; but when I pressed him for proof or evidence he had no
thing to say.

  Finally, however, I got an explanation of what I had considered the chief difficulties in Miss Markton’s case, though her uncle had no idea that he was thus aiding one whom he considered his worst enemy.

  He explained that when he had first discovered that the money was missing from his safe he had had no suspicion of Lillian. Instead, he had suspected a friend and accomplice, who he knew had had many opportunities of obtaining duplicates of his keys—and he had gone to the railway station, not to make his escape, but to watch for his confederate. But when pressed for the man’s name he refused to give it, saying merely that he now knew he had suspected him unjustly—and launching forth again into curses and oaths against his niece.

  I found it impossible to get anything further from him, even any reason for his own confession; and he sullenly refused my offer of legal aid, declaring that he would have nothing to do with anyone connected with his niece. I admit I was relieved at his refusal of my offer, which I had made solely for the sake of Miss Markton.

  I emerged from the Tombs with a confident belief in Lillian Markton’s innocence. In Markton’s story of the suspected confederate I placed no credence whatever—the thing seemed to me to bear all the marks of a hasty fabrication. Also, in the same breath with which he had accused his niece, Markton admitted that he had not even awakened her when he found the package of money missing.

  His accusation of and bitterness toward her made it impossible to consider Miss Markton as an accomplice—for if she were holding the money in collusion with him it would be to his own interest to have her movements free. There was only one possible explanation: that Markton himself had removed and secreted the money.

  From the Tombs I went directly to the Montague Bank—but the president was not in, and since the theft had not been made public I hesitated to confer with any other of the officials. Accordingly I returned to my office, leaving word that I would call again the following morning. I wanted, if possible, to get a trace of the money before seeing the president, knowing that to be the easiest way to clear Miss Markton of the breath of suspicion.

  That evening I called on Miss Markton at her home.

  To all outward appearance it was merely the counterpart of any other New York apartment of the better class; but her presence invested it with a distinct charm and attractiveness.

  As I explained to her, I really had no excuse for calling; I had done nothing conclusive, having been unable to get the slightest trace of the missing money; and the only real news I had—that of her uncle’s hostility toward her—was both unwelcome and unimportant. I ended by asking her if she could guess at any possible reason for Markton’s confession.

  “That,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “is easily explained. Uncle Will is the most lovable man in the world, but he has always been weak and somewhat of a coward. It was simply what you would call lack of nerve. That is why I find it almost impossible to believe you are right in supposing he has the money, or knows where it is.

  “Of course they have tried every means to force him to tell, and I don’t see how he could hold out against them, if he knew. And yet,” she continued after a moment’s thought, “where can it be? Perhaps you are right, after all; at any rate, I hope you find it.”

  “And I, too,” I said earnestly. “You know, Miss Markton, I am interested in this case as I have never been in any other. It is not only that I wish to prove you innocent; your name must not even be mentioned—that is, publicly. It is to that end that I am working—I trust, successfully. It is the greatest pleasure of my life to be allowed to help you.”

  Miss Markton rose suddenly and walked to the window. When she turned back again her eyes were moist with tears and the hand she held toward me trembled as I grasped it in my own.

  “Really, Mr. Moorfield,” she smiled falteringly, “I am very silly. You must forgive me; but I have never had a great deal of friendship, and yours is very sweet to me. And just to prove it,” she added with a brave attempt at gaiety, “I am going to be very kind and send you home to bed!”

  She finished with an adorable little smile that haunted me long after I reached my own chambers, which, for the first time in my life, seemed lonely and bare and cheerless.

  How little, after all, do we shape our actions by reason, when once the senses feel their strength! The lightest perfume of a woman’s hair is sufficient to benumb the strongest brain; the slightest glance from her eyes is blinding, fatal. And how hideously ugly does the truth appear when our senses have forced us to nurse a lie!

  It would have been strange indeed if I had not succeeded in ridding Lillian Markton of the suspicion that had fallen upon her. I had set my heart on it; I felt in my heart that she was innocent; and I expended all my faculties and energy in her assistance.

  I soon gave up all hope of finding any trace of the missing money. Markton remained firm in his statement that he had placed it in the safe, and that when he went for it he found it gone. A careful search of the apartment revealed nothing. I attempted to communicate with the confederate whom Markton had mentioned in his confession, but found that the police had exhausted all inquiries in that direction, and without success.

  The money seemed absolutely to have disappeared from the face of the earth. I learned that the police had spread their net in all directions; that every possible clue had been unearthed and developed—in vain.

  At last, in despair, I made a long-deferred call on the president of the Montague Bank.

  “I have been expecting to see you,” said the bank official as I entered his office, “since you left your card on Tuesday. Pray be seated!”

  I came to the point at once without preliminary.

  “I have come,” I said, “as the representative of Miss Lillian Markton. For the past week her every move has been spied upon—wherever she has gone she has been followed, presumably by detectives in your employ. Further, she has every reason to fear that she will be publicly accused of complicity in the theft to which her uncle has confessed. As a result she is almost in a state of nervous collapse. The thing is monstrously unjust, sir, and you must know it.”

  As I spoke the bank president was walking up and down the floor. When I stopped he turned and regarded me uncertainly.

  “Mr. Moorfield,” he said, “I thoroughly appreciate your feelings and those of your client. But what are we to do? We owe it both to ourselves and to others to exhaust every possible effort to recover the stolen money, and certain facts point strongly to the possibility of your client’s complicity.

  “As far as Miss Markton personally is concerned, I have a high regard for her; she has been a friend of my daughter; and to tell the truth, she would have escaped all annoyance if it had not been for the importunities of my fellow directors. But until the money is found—”

  “Which will possibly be never,” I interrupted. “Or, at least, not before William Markton has served out his sentence. I fully believe he knows where the money is, and no one else.”

  “Perhaps so. But can you blame us for trying every possible means for its recovery?”

  “No,” I said, “that is your right. But surely you have no desire”—my voice was raised almost to appeal—“to persecute the innocent? And you must know—since you know her—you must feel that Miss Markton is not guilty.”

  For a minute there was silence, while the bank official gazed through the window, lost in thought. Then he turned to me with a gesture of decision.

  “Mr. Moorfield,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The proceeding is a little irregular, but that is our own affair. I know—who does not—that you are one of the most conscientious men at the New York bar. I know what your word is worth.

  “I know that you would never have taken Miss Markton’s case if you had not been absolutely assured of her innocence. You know her story, of course.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “Well,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, “if you will stake your reputation on Mis
s Markton’s innocence; if you will give me your word that the evidence you have has persuaded you of it, she will be absolutely freed from any further annoyance and from the slightest suspicion.”

  “But—” I began.

  “I know,” he interrupted, “that you will be assuming a certain responsibility. But so will I. The point is—that we are both desirous that this girl should be freed from anxiety and trouble. I am merely asking you to do your part.”

  I hesitated, but only for a moment.

  There rose before me the vision of Lillian Markton as I had seen her the evening before, happy and grateful at my assurance of success—her eyes, tender and appealing and trustful, lifted to mine—to me a most perfect picture of innocence and purity. What harm could there possibly be in staking my reputation, even my honor, on what every throb of my heart, every pulsation of my brain proclaimed as an undeniable fact?

  Still, as I walked out of the bank and down the street a few minutes later with the words of my pledge to the president ringing in my ears, I felt a vague uneasiness that would not be reasoned away. I had placed myself in a most peculiar position—I could only trust to the future to justify it.

  As for my motives, they were indefinable. I merely felt that I had been pushed on by some irresistible power that had left me helpless and weak before it; and I was weighed down by a sickening sense of impending disaster.

  That evening, as Lillian Markton pressed my hand with tender gratitude, I felt my fears disappear as though by magic. With her at my side, cheerful and lighthearted at the news I had imparted to her, my doubts and misgivings of the morning seemed absurd.

  At noon of that day, she told me, the espionage of her movements had ceased; and, she added, “I really didn’t know how horrible it had been until it was over! Oh! how good it is to feel that there is someone who—who—”

  “Well?” I said hopefully. “Who what?”

  “Who is a friend,” she said, laughing at my eagerness. “Only you aren’t much of one or you wouldn’t be running off to a business engagement just when I want to talk to you. But there! You know how grateful I am!”