Joan's Enemies/Chapter 16

LYDEN did not take the most direct route back to the office. He followed Miss Gosling and saw her departure. Then in a shabby street he went into a gaudy café and had a conversation with one of the attendants, with whom he appeared to be on familiar terms. The two retired to a private room.

Nevertheless barely an hour had elapsed between his setting forth and his return to the office.

From the window Stormont sighted him crossing the street.

“Plyden comes—and from his walk I should say he has done his job.”

Stormont seated himself at his desk, reflected for a moment, and then unlocked a drawer on the right and drew it a little way open.

Plyden entered, breathing rather quickly.

“You haven't been long,” said Stormont pleasantly. “Just shut the door and turn the key—will you?” As the clerk obeyed: “Well, are you going to claim that hundred, Plyden?”

Plyden's smile on facing his employer could hardly have been termed frank, but he spoke glibly enough.

“Just got back from the Pennsy station. The lady has gone to Atlantic City?

“Indeed!” commented Stormont. “But you are not standing there to tell me that the lady has taken the document with her.”

“No sir. She gave it up without a struggle.”

“Good! Let us have the story.”

It must be allowed that Plyden's recital was worthy of a nobler deed, and not without its dramatic and humorous touches. At its close:

“Excellent!” said Stormont. “And now let us have the document.”

HERE was a brief pause till Plyden answered: “You did not forbid me to look at the document, Mr. Stormont.”

“Of course not! What did you think of it, Plyden?”

The clerk, less confident now, moistened his lips. “I thought it was worth more than a hundred dollars.”

“Did you, indeed? To you or to me?”

“To either of us, sir.”

Stormont took a sidelong glance at Lismore, who was bolt upright and glaring. Then he shook his head sadly. “Not to me, Plyden, not to me!”

“To me,” said the other with an apparent effort, “it seems worth twenty-five thousand. Of course, I don't ask for the money right away. A written promise would satisfy me. A—”

“Hadn't you better go and have some lunch?” Stormont interrupted in the kindest manner.

“I'm not joking, sir.” The speaker was becoming hoarse.

“I hardly think you would venture to joke with me, Plyden.”

“I know what you mean—those beastly testimonials of mine in your safe. But I was going to suggest that you make a gift of them along with the twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Charming idea, of course, but not feasible, I'm afraid. Kindly produce the document you have so cleverly recovered for us.”

Plyden took a step forward. “I'll risk the testimonials, but I—I must have the money. I can put two and two together, and it's clear to me that you don't want the document to fall into certain hands. Besides, you are coming into a fortune shortly.”

“Thank you so much! Will you please put the document on my desk?”

“I don't want to threaten.” Plyden paused and brought out a half-sheet of notepaper. “I was afraid I might not be permitted to speak, so I wrote the important point down. If you will kindly look at this, Mr. Stormont.”

Stormont's hand went to the open drawer—then upward. “And if you will kindly look at this, Mr. Plyden,” he said in a fine mockery.

HE clerk went back against the door, white, sweating, staring at the shining revolver.

“You can't beat me, Plyden,” said Stormont evenly. “Rather than pay you a penny more than I promised, I will kill you. To kill you would save me a hundred dollars, and there are several good enough reasons for your committing suicide. Now give up the document.”

“Read this first,” said the clerk in little more than a whisper.

Lismore had risen and was standing quaking in the background.

“The document!” repeated Stormont, unmoved. “I will count ten; and then—”

“For God's sake, wait—listen!”

“One—two—three—”

“I haven't got it.”

“Four—five—six—”

“I say, I haven't—”

“Seven—eight—”

“Stormont, don't shoot!” shouted Lismore in a frenzy, and threw himself upon his partner.

There was a sharp report. Plyden writhed for a moment, an awful look of amazement on his countenance; his hands fluttered vaguely, and then he crumpled up, fell, straightened out and lay still upon his face.

Stormont flung the big man aside, crying: “Oh, you blundering fool, couldn't you see it was all pretense!” He ran to the stricken creature, knelt, turned him gently over on his back and shuddered, murmuring:

“God! he's gone!”

“Not dead?” wailed Lismore.

“Right in the heart.”

In a perfect abandonment of despair, Lismore threw up his arms.

“Stop that!” commanded Stormont. “This is no time for us to quarrel,” he went on, rising. “You and I have got to be more solid than ever. The man died through sheer mischance; his blood is not on our hands.” Springing to the desk, he took from the open drawer a box of cartridges. “Quick! go and place that in Plyden's office coat. But first lock the outer door. Then ring up the police—the more excited you are the better. Say 'Suicide!' and ask them to send their doctor. Wait! Let me have one of those cartridges. There! Now go!”

TORMONT was very pale; yet his hand was fairly steady as he loosened the bullet from the cartridge-shell. Once more kneeling by the body, he shook a little of the powder round the bullet-hole in the clothing. Then with a match he ignited it. A small cloud of smoke, and an evidence for suicide was established. Next with his handkerchief he removed possible finger-marks from the revolver and placed it first in, and then within, reach of the dead hand. Tears came to his eyes. “You poor, weak devil!” he muttered. He disposed of case and bullet, for the time being, by dropping them into a large jar of ink. Finally he found a clean handkerchief and covered the still face.

Then he picked up the half-sheet of notepaper which had fluttered into a corner. He was about to examine it when there came a knocking at the outer door. Lismore appeared in a panic. Pushing him aside, Stormont went out and opened the door to a little crowd gathered from neighboring offices.

“Yes,” he replied solemnly to their questions, “it was a shot you heard. Our clerk, poor fellow, has taken his life. We have sent for the police. Until they arrive we cannot, as you will understand, admit anybody.”

Softly he reclosed the door and turned the key.

In the outer office he read that which Plyden so recently had begged him to look at. It was this:

At that moment Daniel Stormont all but admitted defeat.