Part 25 (1/2)
”Her game is blackmail,” he declared at last.
”On whom?” the detective queried.
”Arthur Sloane, of course. She calculates that he'll play to have her cease annoying his daughter's fiance. And she'll impress Arthur, if Jarvis ever lets her get to him. Somehow, she strangely compels credence.”
”Not for me,” Hastings objected, and did not point out that Wilton's words might be taken as an admission of Webster's guilt.
The judge himself might have seen that.
”I mean,” he qualified, ”she seems too smart a woman to put herself in a position where ridicule will be sure to overtake her. And yet, that's what she's doing--isn't she?”
The detective was whittling, dropping the chips into the waste-basket.
He spoke with a deliberateness unusual even in him, framing each sentence in his mind before giving it utterance.
”I reckon, judge, you and I have had some four or five talks--that is, not counting Sat.u.r.day evening and yesterday at Sloanehurst. That's about the extent of our acquaintance. That right?”
”Why, yes,” Wilton said, surprised by the change of topic.
”I mention it,” Hastings explained, ”to show how I've felt toward you--you interested me. Excuse me if I speak plainly--you'll see why later on--but you struck me as worth studying, deep. And I thought you must have sized me up, catalogued me one way or the other. You're like me: waste no time with men who bore you. I felt certain, if you'd been asked, you'd have checked me off as reliable. Would you?”
”Unquestionably.”
”And, if I was reliable then, I'm reliable now. That's a fair a.s.sumption, ain't it?”
”Certainly.” The judge laughed shortly, a little embarra.s.sed.
”That brings me to my point. You'll believe me when I tell you my only interest in this murder is to find the murderer, and, while I'm doing it, to save the Sloanes as much as possible from annoyance. You'll believe me, also, when I say I've got to have all the facts if I'm to work surely and fast. You recognize the force of that, don't you?”
”Why, yes, Hastings.” Wilton spoke impatiently this time.
”Fine!” The old man shot him a genial glance over the steel-rimmed spectacles. ”That's the introduction. Here's the real thing: I've an idea you could tell me more about what happened on the lawn Sat.u.r.day night.”
After his involuntary, immediate start of surprise, Wilton tilted his head, slowly blowing the cigar smoke from his pursed lips. He had a fine air of reflection, careful thought.
”I can elaborate what I've already told you,” he said, finally, ”if that's what you mean--go into greater detail.”
He watched closely the edge of the detective's face unhidden by his bending over the wood he was cutting.
”I don't think elaboration could do much good,” Hastings objected. ”I referred to new stuff--some fact or facts you might have omitted, unconsciously.”
”Unconsciously?” Wilton echoed the word, as a man does when his mind is overtaxed.
Hastings took it up.
”Or consciously, even,” he said quickly, meeting the other's eyes.
The judge moved sharply, bracing himself against the back of the chair.
”What do you mean by that?”