I went back slowly to where the woman sat alone.
She smiled rather oddly as I drew near, and pointed to the chair Bronson had
vacated.
“Sit down, Mr. Blakeley,” she said, “I am going to take a few
minutes of your valuable time.”
“Certainly.” I sat down opposite her and glanced at a cuckoo clock
on the wall. “I am sorry, but I have only a few minutes. If
you—” She laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and opening a
small black fan covered with spangles, waved it slowly.
“The fact is,” she said, “I think we are about to make a
bargain.”
“A bargain?” I asked incredulously. “You have a second
advantage of me. You know my name”—I paused suggestively and she
took the cue.
“I am Mrs. Conway,” she said, and flicked a crumb off the table
with an over-manicured finger.
The name was scarcely a surprise. I had already surmised that this might be the
woman whom rumor credited as being Bronson’s common-law wife. Rumor, I
remembered, had said other things even less pleasant, things which had been
brought out at Bronson’s arrest for forgery.
“We met last under less fortunate circumstances,” she was saying.
“I have been fit for nothing since that terrible day. And you—you
had a broken arm, I think.”
“I still have it,” I said, with a lame attempt at jocularity;
“but to have escaped at all was a miracle. We have much, indeed, to be
thankful for.”
“I suppose we have,” she said carelessly, “although sometimes
I doubt it.” She was looking somberly toward the door through which her
late companion had made his exit.
“You sent for me—” I said.
“Yes, I sent for you.” She roused herself and sat erect.
“Now, Mr. Blakeley, have you found those papers?”
“The papers? What papers?” I parried. I needed time to think.
“Mr. Blakeley,” she said quietly, “I think we can lay aside
all subterfuge. In the first place let me refresh your mind about a few things.
The Pittsburg police are looking for the survivors of the car Ontario; there
are three that I know of—yourself, the young woman with whom you left the
scene of the wreck, and myself. The wreck, you will admit, was a fortunate one
for you.”
I nodded without speaking.
“At the time of the collision you were in rather a hole,” she went
on, looking at me with a disagreeable smile. “You were, if I remember,
accused of a rather atrocious crime. There was a lot of corroborative evidence,
was there not? I seem to remember a dirk and the murdered man’s
pocket-book in your possession, and a few other things that were—well,
rather unpleasant.”
I was thrown a bit off my guard.
“You remember also,” I said quickly, “that a man disappeared
from the car, taking my clothes, papers and everything.”
“I remember that you said so.” Her tone was quietly
insulting, and I bit my lip at having been caught. It was no time to make a
defense.
“You have missed one calculation,” I said coldly, “and that
is, the discovery of the man who left the train.”
“You have found him?” She bent forward, and again I regretted my
hasty speech. “I knew it; I said so.”
“We are going to find him,” I asserted, with a confidence I did not
feel. “We can produce at any time proof that a man left the Flier a few
miles beyond the wreck. And we can find him, I am positive.”
“But you have not found him yet?” She was clearly disappointed.
“Well, so be it. Now for our bargain. You will admit that I am no
fool.”
I made no such admission, and she smiled mockingly.
“How flattering you are!” she said. “Very well. Now for the
premises. You take to Pittsburg four notes held by the Mechanics’
National Bank, to have Mr. Gilmore, who is ill, declare his indorsement of them
forged.
“On the journey back to Pittsburg two things happen to you: you lose your
clothing, your valise and your papers, including the notes, and you are accused
of murder. In fact, Mr. Blakeley, the circumstances were most singular, and the
evidence—well, almost conclusive.”
I was completely at her mercy, but I gnawed my lip with irritation.
“Now for the bargain.” She leaned over and lowered her voice.
“A fair exchange, you know. The minute you put those four notes in my
hand—that minute the blow to my head has caused complete forgetfulness as
to the events of that awful morning. I am the only witness, and I will be
silent. Do you understand? They will call off their dogs.”
My head was buzzing with the strangeness of the idea.
“But,” I said, striving to gain time, “I haven’t the
notes. I can’t give you what I haven’t got.”
“You have had the case continued,” she said sharply. “You
expect to find them. Another thing,” she added slowly, watching my face,
“if you don’t get them soon, Bronson will have them. They have been
offered to him already, but at a prohibitive price.”
“But,” I said, bewildered, “what is your object in coming to
me? If Bronson will get them anyhow—”
She shut her fan with a click and her face was not particularly pleasant to
look at.
“You are dense,” she said insolently. “I want those
papers—for myself, not for Andy Bronson.”
“Then the idea is,” I said, ignoring her tone, “that you
think you have me in a hole, and that if I find those papers and give them to
you you will let me out. As I understand it, our friend Bronson, under those
circumstances, will also be in a hole.”
She nodded.
“The notes would be of no use to you for a limited length of time,”
I went on, watching her narrowly. “If they are not turned over to the
state’s attorney within a reasonable time there will have to be a
nolle pros—that is, the case will simply be dropped for lack of
evidence.”
“A week would answer, I think,” she said slowly. “You will do
it, then?”
I laughed, although I was not especially cheerful.
“No, I’ll not do it. I expect to come across the notes any time
now, and I expect just as certainly to turn them over to the state’s
attorney when I get them.”
She got up suddenly, pushing her chair back with a noisy grating sound that
turned many eyes toward us.
“You’re more of a fool than I thought you,” she sneered, and
left me at the table.
