“What kind of cane was it?”
“A rough brown one, heavy.”
“And his hat?”
“I don’t know, Ned. I guess it was knocked off and somebody picked it up.”
“He had one on?”
“Yes, sure.”
Ned Beaumont brushed a side of his mustache with a thumb-nail. “You remember Sloss’s and Ferriss’s car passing you?”
Madvig shook his head. “No, though they may have.”
Ned Beaumont frowned at the blond man. “You gummed things up plenty by running off with the stick and burning it and keeping quiet all this time,” he grumbled. “You had a clear self-defense plea.”
“I know, but I didn’t want that, Ned,” Madvig said hoarsely. “I want Janet Henry more than I ever wanted anything in my life and what chance would I have then, even if it was an accident?”
Ned Beaumont laughed in Madvig’s face. It was a low laugh and bitter. He said: “You’d have more chance than you’ve got now.”
Madvig, staring at him, said nothing.
Ned Beaumont said: “She’s always thought you killed her brother. She hates you. She’s been trying to play you into the electric chair. She’s responsible for first throwing suspicion on you with anonymous letters sent around to everybody that might be interested. She’s the one that turned Opal against you. She was in my rooms this morning telling me this, trying to turn me. She–”
Madvig said: “That’s enough.” He stood erect, a big blond man whose eyes were cold blue disks. “What is it, Ned? Do you want her yourself or is it–” He broke off contemptuously. “It doesn’t make any difference.” He jerked a thumb carelessly at the door. “Get out, you heel, this is the kiss-off.”
Ned Beaumont said: “I’ll get out when I’ve finished talking.”
Madvig said: “You’ll get out when you’re told to. You can’t say anything I’ll believe. You haven’t said anything I believe. You never will now.”
Ned Beaumont said: “Oke.” He picked up his hat and overcoat and went out.
2
Ned Beaumont went home. His face was pale and sullen. He slouched down in one of the big red chairs with a bottle of Bourbon whisky and a glass on the table beside him, but he did not drink. He stared gloomily at his black-shod feet and bit a finger-nail. His telephone-bell rang. He did not answer it. Twilight began to displace day in the room. The room was dusky when he rose and went to the telephone.
He called a number. Then: “Hello, I’d like to speak to Miss Henry, please.” After a pause that he spent whistling tunelessly under his breath, he said: “Hello, Miss Henry? Yes ye just come from telling Paul all about it, about you. . . . Yes, and you were right. He did what you counted on his doing He laughed. “You did. You knew he’d call me a liar, refuse to listen to me, and throw me out, and he did all of it. . . . No, no, that’s all right. It had to happen. . . . No, really. . . . Oh, it’s probably permanent enough. Things were said that can’t easily be unsaid. . . . Yes, all evening, I think. . . . That’ll be fine. . . . All right. ‘By.”
He poured out a glass of whisky then and drank it. After that he went into his darkening bedroom, set his alarm-clock for eight o’clock, and lay down fully clothed on his back on the bed. For a while he looked at the ceiling. Then he slept, breathing irregularly, until the alarm rang.
He got up sluggishly from his bed and, switching on lights, went into the bathroom, washed his face and hands, put on a fresh collar, and started a fire in the living-room fireplace. He read a newspaper until Janet Henry arrived.
She was excited. Though she at once began to assure Ned Beaumont that she had not foreseen the result of his telling Paul about her visit, had not counted on it, elation danced frankly in her eyes and she could not keep smiles from curving her lips while they shaped the apologetic words.
He said: “It doesn’t matter. I’d’ve had to do it if I’d known how it was going to turn out. I suppose I did know down underneath. It’s one of those things. And if you’d told me it would happen I’d only’ve taken that for a challenge and would’ve jumped to it.”