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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 4, 1923)
The Room on the Roof ..- —- — -_ By Will Payne the Invention, you see; and I Just set It down as a bit of Impudent ly ing. He said that he quarreled with Steinman the last day Steinman was here. Krom had been drinking a great deal. He said ho killed him and burled him In the cellar.” The lawyer tipped his handsome head a bit to one side, thoughtfully, an absent little smile on his lips. "Odd, you know. If you have a preconceived theory you’re apt to brush aside things that doh't agree with it—simply disregard them. And Krom was an abandoned liar. Seems odd when I look back at It now; but I simply brushed It aside at the time—just laughed at it and paid no attention. But all this afternoon and evening It's been coming up— and now It seems much more prob able. Krom might do aythlng when he was drunk—a drunkard, a row, a crack on the head with a bottle. It seems so much more probable to me now. In spite of what the po lice think, Krom may have commit ted suicide- When I heard that note about a trunk in the coal bln —it really gave me a start. Krom said, ‘Buried him In the cellar. ” Harwood surveyed the trunk and thrust out his lower lip. "Stein man’s body may be In that trunk.” She listened to him quite wi» lessly, in sheer amazement; and her staring eyes turned to the old trunk with a prickle of horror. Then she remembered how it felt when she had turned it over. “Why, there's no body in that trunk, Nat!” she exclaimed, in credulously. "It's not heavy enough." Harwood gave her an intimate sort of little nod and replied, “Part of a body!” He had his free hand on her arm again. “Tou run up stairs. Bessie, till I see. If there’s nothing I'll call you.” The gentle pull of his hand was directing her toward the stairs. She felt a sudden, bewildered helplessness. She was no match for him; it was useless to contend with him unless she descended to a knock down and drag out. "I will not! You shall nut!” On any ground he would best her and have his way. And there was & little prickle of horror as she stared at the trunk. "You call me,” she said helplessly, and obeyed the gentle pull of his arm toward the stairs. He gave her an affirmative little nod and led her to the foot of the stairs. She went up without look ing back. What was the use? And again, up in the dark factory, her nerves thrilled. Could It be Stein man's body? Faint sounds from the basement reached her—thumping, striking. He was breaking open the trunk. Then complete silence for a minute or more. He was not calling her. Had he found a body, then? The silence continued. Again there were sounds—a stir among the broken boards and empty crates dcwn there. Silence for a moment. Then (he basement door opened and Harwood called: “Bess!" “Yes,” she answreed from the dark, not far away, moving toward him. “Come look at the mare's nest," he said, lightly. She followed him downstairs. The trunk was broken open. A quantity of excelsior lay about It, with more of the same material inside the trunk, where, also, lay two cement building blocks. Pointing to them, Harwood laughed. Bess also laughed, quite heartily —more loudly. In fact, than was necessary. "Is that all?" she cried gayly. "That's all," said Harwood, smil ing and nodding affirmatively at her. ''One of Krom’s tricks. Lord knows what Iip was up to! We may ns well leave it ns it is." He took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands, adding, "I'll turn out these lights." She was still sinlllng. Any one who had seen her at the moment would have said that she was still enjoying the joke. leaving him to turn out the lights, she went up stairs. But any one who had seen her In the dark factory would not have thought she was enjoying a Joke. A spasm drew her face; her voice caught at the base of her throat In a sob; there was a salt smart of tears In her eyes. For she felt a sudden and great despair. A minute or so before Sergeant Samuels came in she had made a little excursion through the belit tered basement, turning on the electlric lights as she went, her purpose being to find the iron bar that Whiteside had flung away. One electric light dangled under the head of the stairs. Turning it on, she happened to notice two cement building blocks, left over from the basement wall, lying In the dirt. A piece as big as her two fists had been broken from the corner of one of them. Those were the two blocks which Harwood had just shown her in the old trunk. She was no match for him. If one lie didn't answer he would think up another. She never could trust him again or look up to him. Her role would be to help him out in his lies—as when she had laughed loudly at seeing the cement blocks in the trunk. And there was some thing poignantly pathetic about it —a sort of childlike ingenuousness about the lies, like a greedy little boy stealing the Jam and telling pome cock and bull story about it. Not tragic, but pathetic! She went on through the office, out of doors. The cool, vast dark, in which noth ing was clearly distinguishable, seemed friendly to her. But Nat was tarrying In the base ment as minute after minute passed. She was sure he had taken something out of the trunk and was hiding It more securely now; per haps burying it. But she had given up; she was no match for him. She could only help him hide his stolen Jam! Two great shafts of light flashed through the dark. Here was the car coming back. And here was Harwood, calling to her from the office door—handsome, pleasant, and so considerate! He waved her protests aside and superintended while the expert chauffeur arranged the cushions and robes in the body of the car so that she could lie down. They had a five-hour drive ahead; she must get some sleep if she could. In that little matter al so she let him have his away—even let him brush aside her objections when he proposed to sit up in front with tjie chauffeur, so she could have the body of the car to herself. Fresh air would do him some good, he said, brightly; he couldn't sleep anyway, but she could, if left to herself. He saw that she was as comfortably disposed as possible, tucked a robe around her, patted her cheek. Who could be kinder than Nat? “Clasped like a missal." That line came into her head as she lay curled on the soft cushion, her feet on a forward seat, robes piled under her knees, a robe over her, while the big machine rolled swiftly and smoothly through the night. A flash of lights now and then as they went through a town—or, even more, the unbroken flow of darkness past the windows—gave her an odd sense of power. Rushing through the dark in this costly cage, on, on—surely this was the magic carpet of the Ara bian nights with modern improve ments. It was exactly the magic wand over which her heart had flut tered—and the kingdoms of the earth.. . . That story about Stelnman'n body. O, Natl Nat! Just like a lying little boy who's stolen the Jam! The night was passing. Half past ten would bring the Inquest—then a verdict. They had broken their parole: that would count against them: and already they were "In bad,” as he had said. Finally, she had failed In her trust, too—that un worded pledge which her eyes had given In the basement. She hadn’t been able to keep that, either. Whatever the trunk contained wns lost to the suspects. Sad and strange, too, because of an unac countable feeling that Robert Whiteside would understand It. In that subtle freemasonry of youth he would listen, his round, gray blue eyes soberly regarding her, and nod and say, "O, sure! I see Just how it happened. Naturally, you couldn't have done anything else.'* He would be saying that to her long afterward, when she was Mrs. Na thaniel Harwood. Her eyes snapped wide open, with a cold thrill and a little moan, for she had just seen him saying that In convict's stripes. She put her fingers up to her lips. The night was passing—an Inquest —a verdict. She dozed again. A steady play of lights wakened her and she sat up. This must be Chicago, for only jn the city would there be so many street lamps. Yes. it was Michigan boulevard—and here was the river. The car was rolling to the curb In front of the Deermoore hotel. Certainly she’d been a pig to keep Nat out there In front all the way from Slow River; he must be half frozen. She had the door open before the chauffeur could come around to It and was out on the sidewalk. She went on to the office and opened the outer door. The cool, clean night air came to her cheeks and lungs, after that close, moldy smell of the basement—a tonic that helped to clear her mind. The story about Steinman now seemed grotesque. The police were sure Krom hadn't committed suicide or written that remarkable note. She went back Into the dark factory, but the door at the head of the basement stairs was shut. Nat must have followed her up and closed the door behind her. "Are you cold,” she was asking Harwood, looking up at him from the walk. "I meant to get you In side, but I fell asleep.” *T'm tiptop,” he assured her: "snoozed a little myself. It's only half-past 8. We'1’1 both get some sleep before breakfast. Don’t come to the office till 10; we’ll go to the Inquest together.” Always consid erate! Upstairs she lay down without completely undressing—to think rather than to sleep. Yet. what was there to think about? Only a cage to run round and round In, It seemed. But, after all. here was a door to her cage—a door that brought her up with a great shock and set her blood singing In her ears, as though that suddenly dis covered aperture led straight into a lion's den. She knew that Nat had Krom's black bag. Suppose, now, it all went against the suspects at the Inquest? Suppose the verdict bound them over to answer for murder? Should she then declare that Nat had the black bag—tell where It was concealed? As she sat up. the blood singing in her ears. It seemed quite mar velous that she hadn't really thought of so obvious a dilemma be fore. Some way—she could hardly explain It now—she had taken It for granted that she was not to tell what she had seen when ahe stepped into her cabinet. Some way she had taken It for granted that her testimony •'bout Whiteside's going up in the elevatoi only a minute before her would be sufficient. Some way she had felt it waa Impossible that Nat had really shot Krom. There had been such a rush of things since the murder. This dilemma had never really looked her straight In the face until now. What must she do about it? Certainly that black bag was an important piece of evidence, telling heavily In favor of the suspects. She bathed her hands and face again, and went over by the win dow, rolling up the shade to let In the dawn. Here, vitally and Im peratively, was something to think about! ^ She should go to Nat; tell him she knew about the black bag; show him that he must confess It, If that seemed necessary to save Curlin and Whiteside. It came to her that Nat would think up some expedient to meet the situation—saving the sus pects. yet not giving himself away too much. But there was the trag edy again—as though Nat were a cloud, a shadow- that ons could not lay hands upon and compel to this course or that. She was no match for him. Finally he'd fool her even about that bag If he wished to. It occurred to her that perhaps the bag which she had seen In the bot tom drawer of his desk waa already disposed of. She could fafc-ly see him smiling as he opened the drawer to show her that It contained no such article, and explaining to her that what she had seen was some other bag, which he would produce from the coat closet and exhibit. That magic wand of his was a peculiar Instrument. Of course, she could go to Capt. West and tell him. Then she thought of going to the office early and seeing whether or not the bag was still there. Theoretically she could do either of those things, but actually—someway—she could do neither. Nat was still her roan; there was an inhibition which she could not break. Impossible to de liver such an attack upon him. Finally, she could only wait for the inquest. Then, if the verdict went against the suspects—then—then — she had to leave it at that. Day was coming on. Presently she felt a sad resignation, as though she were bound hand and foot. And a sort of trust, a sort of faith for which there was no reason. She pulled down the window shade; went over and lay on the bed again, lax, resigned to wait. In time she dozed again. She was in no hurry over bathing and dressing. It was 8:40 when she went down to breakfast: but she was in no hurry over that. Un til the Inquest, she had simply given up. She didn’t even wish to think any more. She was loitering In the small and cozy lobby, when the brass buttoned boy told her there was a telephone call. She was thinking of Nat when she stepped into the booth and took up the re ceiver; but It was a strange, mascu line voice: • Miss Malden? Capt. West wishes to see you. Can you be at his office in half an hour?" Looking at the clock as she came out of the booth, she saw that half an hour would be 9:40. She de cided to walk, and went upstairs for her hat and coat, alert now and moving quickly, for she had some thing definite to do. And what cculd Capt. West want? Moving quickly, she left the hotel and started, down the steps that led front entrance to slewalk—and • _ caught her breath, her cheeks col oring. For there was Robert Whiteside* his arm in a sling, coming S'rnss the street. Certainly he'd been waiting on the opposite side. Mha thought, "He's going to Rsk about the trunk.” That thought brought the color to her cheeks. She waited at the foot of the steps. He smiled and spoke cheerfully, but like one in haste. "I'm on parole again. 1 had a few minutes, and I thought—possibly— I might catch you here. May I walk with you?” Apparently he had spent his precious few minutes standing In front of the hotel, hoping to see her. "Yes.” she said. “They let you gd again?” She wanted to talk about anything rather than trunks. Falling In step beside her, he low ered and softened his voice: ' You see. my uncle had a breakdown—a stroke. It happened on the train coming In. They took him to a hospital. Of course, I'd tried to ex plain how the parole came to be broken—he really Irresponsible, and I following him. They chucked me In a cell. Then, about half an hour ago, they let me out—saying I could go on parole till 10 o'clock. I don't know why. Of course, I hope something favorable lias turned up. They didn't say why, but simply that I could go until 10 o’clock. I telephoned the hospital; but there seemed nothing I could do there, so I came up on the chance of getting a word with you.” That was all for the moment, as he walked along beside her. his arm in a sling. But she hadn't a doubt that he wanted to ask her about the trunk. I nee, Bhe murmured. 1 m sor ry about your uncle.” But certain ly It wasn't sympathy for hln unci* that he had come up there for. They stepped along In silence for a moment. “It may go hard with him—physically,” he said, his eyes on the sidewalk. "But, after all. I feel a satisfaction. That may sound odd to you.” He glanced around at her. "My uncle was afflicted with an awful temper. Bometlmes. late ly, I'm sure he was irresponsible. There was something sad about it, for he was kind and Just, too. He took my mother and me in when we were helpless—always kind to us. In his way. My mother is an affec tionate woman. Her affection went to him. you see. "When I came back here last spring and saw the state he was in. about this Infernal Invention I thought the big thing was to keep him from getting himself Into some awful mess. An old man, you see— It would have been miserable If he had wound up In some awful mess. My mother had a kind of terror of It. So I'll always be mighty grate ful that I went up to the roof room with him yesterday. Except for that, you know—his mind being so unbalanced—I couldn’t have been sure myself Just what had happened up there. In a fit, I mean, he might have shot. I know he didn't shoot^now, for I was with him. So, if he should go out—from this stroke—I’m awfully grateful that I was with him and know he didn't shoot—go out with clean hands, you understand. I'm sure there s nothing In the world—unless It might be something connected with me—that my mother would prize above knowing that. And so. as I said, there’s a satisfaction—although It may sound odd to you.” She gently bit a corner of her lip and, after a moment, murmured, "No, It doesn’t sound odd to me. It's a fine gift you can make your mother.” Then, for a minute, they tramped on In silence. <ropyrl*ht, \922.) (To Be Continued.) —--1 he JBott07Yl> of the JBarret _tcominar* rnm v***tw<o By Richard Washburn Child the festooned vines and filled the porch with rich fragrance. "There is something revolting in the idea." Edith said, f Mary said nothing. ' Miss Barston began. In a timid, halting, frightened voice, "He might make love to you.” ► “It is possible. But it Is a pretty, fine Instinct—love. There is no rea son why you should feel revulsion —unless, of course, he has prom ised fidelity to j'ou—as he did to me—that Is to say, told you he would refrain from kissing his wife.” Edith leaped up. Her lean fists were clenched. “Shall we install a dietaphonic Instrument?” asked Mary savagely. The other hesitated, and then, as if she had thought of it herself, she said. “I suspect that Billy, In spite of his good looks and his charm and hls high purposes, may be a little—a little contentious." “He is even profane,” said Mary. "Ho is always sorry afterward. The truth Is that he Is very human.” “I cannot bear unrestraint!” the othsp young woman asserted. "I think self-control is everything!” “Yes? I am not aA sure but I wish you could listen to—" She stopped. “O, well. I sometimes laugh myself." "Yet, if he is like that, how can you—" "Love him?" asked Mary. “I’ll tell you. It Is partly the illusion that I do. To me, it is the dearest Illusion In the world. As people go, we have made a useful team. And, in the main, when brought down to earth Billy Is a loveable, loyal play er of the game. Together we have a host of memories, mostly of vic tories— not nil. but mostly. And our Intentions toward living are better together than our intentions sepa rately. Love, I think, is not a spirit; love Is a long, hard pull. It means, for Instanee, that this mo ment I must admit that you are neither bad at heart nor far dif ferent from the rest of us." "Mary Elbridge,” said Edith, with tears welling up. “I never knew you—” "Well, you don't know me yet,” said the other. “I'd like to pull your damned hair out by the roots." Miss Baraton gave a frightened look and ran down the steps. The sun was shining very bright at high noon, and the daisies in the breeze nodded their bright faces to the sun. Mary heard the screen door, and came out of her room irritated, be cause behind her the papers on her desk, finding themselves free, were blowing skltterwise into all corners. When she saw that Edith Bar ston had come back after three days, she said hello, and sat down on the top step of the landing. “Well,” said Edith, breathing fast, and a little adamantine In her man ner, “I came over to say good by.” “Ooodby?" “Yes. Aunty and I are going to Europe.” “Billy didn't tell me." said Mary. “Me couldn’t. I haven't seen him to tell him. It was a recent deci sion.” “Well, I'm sorry—sorry you're go ing,” Mary Said. “Perhaps you'll writs us?" Edith leaned her folded arms against the natural wood newel post, knocked ol£ » little red tic pail, which Jangled around on the floor, and when It waa quiet she said. "Did you tell Billy about our talk?" "No,” said Mary, "What was the use." Kdith persisted, "Did you sug gest that I might have a bottom to my barrel?” "Yes, I mentioned the distophonic experiment to Billy. Of course In your case It wasn't practical. I mean there'd be no way to put one In un less you knew It." "I wish I knew what you sug gested might be disclosed of me to Billy." "O, well, I’ll tell you that, too. He was fascinated by your Idea of releasing him from dominating influences—you know, hampering personalities—yourself to play the part of sunlight and fresh air to make Billy grow as he Usteth. I assume you told him that every being had the right to be free, not to be bullied. That was it. And then I thought Billy might be in terested to know how you practiced that philosophy on your aunt. I suppose he'd never remembered your aunt—she ia so thoroughly wiped out.” Edith coughed. "You are wholly unjust.” she said. "You are not leaving on our ac count?" asked Mary, as if sudden ly filled with polite alarm. "Be cause Billy ia leaving. He says we must all go, too. He says he thinke the mountains will be nicer. He aavs he thinks he can begin his summer's work in the mountains. He went away yetserday to pick out a place for us.” The other woman went toward the screen door wearily. "Goodby.” "Goodby.” Mary returned to her work It ap peared to her suddenly unworthy and trivial, built on nothing What dif ference did it make? All pride in it had leaked away. It had lost asso ciation with Billy and the children. Blast him! It was his selfishness and Jack assery that was to blame; his desire to always take the top of the barrel and leave the bot tom. How could anything 1>* the same again? Clean again” With (CsatiMS* m race SchMi
