The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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as this one. Proof positive that the man is a villain! He is too rich to be good.
The woman is talking. She leans forward with a smile that would win the heart of an armored angel—one of Milton’s kind; but the man still frowns. It is easy to see that he is going to refuse her request—the beast! She concludes with a gesture of infinite grace, infinite appeal.
This is what she said:
“So you see, John, it was really a good act on the part of Harry to rid the world of that unspeakable uncle of his. Why, there isn’t a soul in the city with a single kind word for that old miser, William McCurtney! He never did a gentle act. He broke the heart of his wife and killed her. He has kept poor Harry in penury.”
The villain removed the black cigar from his teeth with a singularly unattractive hand. It looked as if it had been used all his life for grabbing things—and then holding them. His eyes burrowed into the face of the beautiful woman as if it made not the slightest difference to him whether he was speaking to his wife or not.
“This is the case,” he said. “Harry McCurtney killed his uncle, William McCurtney. He did it by putting poison in the Scotch whisky which old William was drinking to the health of his nephew. A maid saw Harry put something into his uncle’s glass. She afterward got hold of the vial of poison, out of which only a few drops had been poured. There was enough left to kill ten men. When old McCurtney died that night, the maid called in the police and had Harry arrested. She produced the vial of poison as evidence. The case was easily made out. A druggist has sworn that the poison was purchased from him by young Harry McCurtney. Tomorrow the jury is certain to bring a verdict of guilty against this man. That, in brief, is the case of the man you want me to defend.”
“Your brevity,” said his wife, “has destroyed everything worthwhile in the case. You have left out the fact that William McCurtney was a heartless old ruffian—a miser, hated by everyone and hating everyone. You have left out the fact”—here her voice lowered and grew musically gentle as only the voice of a woman of culture can grow—“you have left out the fact, John, that Harry McCurtney is a rare soul, an artist, a man unequipped for battling with the world. With the fortune he inherits from his uncle he would lead a beautiful, an ideal existence. He would do good to the world. He is—he is—a chosen spirit, John!”
“And he murdered his uncle,” said John Barrett, “while old William was drinking his nephew’s health and long life.”
“That is an absurd and brutal way of stating it,” said Mrs. John Barrett. “You cannot reduce the troubles of a delicate and esthetic soul to such a bald statement of fact.”
“I should have to be a poet to do him justice?”
“You would.”
“However it is a waste of time to attempt to defend this fellow. I’ve seen the evidence. He’ll hang!”
His wife rose from her chair and stood facing him. All the color went from her face; she seemed to have been painted white with a single stroke of an invisible brush.
“He must not hang! John, you can defend him. I’ve seen you win more impossible cases than this! I remember the Hanover trial. John Hanover was guilty. All the world knew it; but all the evidence of his guilt came from one witness. On the last day, before the case went to the jury, you put the witness for the prosecution on the stand. I’ll never forget it! You drew him out. You seemed hopeless of winning your case; you seemed to be questioning him simply as a matter of form to justify the collection of your fee. And the witness grew very confident. Finally you asked him the color of the necktie which Hanover was wearing when he committed the crime. The witness said without hesitation:
“‘A red tie with white stripes.’
“With that you clapped your hand over your own necktie, sprang to your feet, pointed a melodramatic hand at the witness, and thundered in your courtroom voice:
“‘What color is the necktie that I’m wearing?’
“The witness was dumfounded. He couldn’t tell. Then you turned to the jury and discredited all that witness’s testimony. You said you had been wearing the same necktie day after day in court, and the witness didn’t know what its color was. Then how could he be sure of the color of the necktie which Hanover wore, when he had only seen Hanover for a few seconds, committing the murder? It showed that the man was giving valueless testimony; that he was lying out of hand. And the jury acquitted your man. John, you can do some miraculous thing like that now for my friend, Harry McCurtney. You’ll find some way. Why else are you called Hole-in-the-Wall Barrett?”
While she completed this impassioned appeal, John Barrett regarded her with utter unconcern. He might have been listening to the accomplishments of some fabulous character rather than to one of his own most spectacular exploits.
“To be brief, Elizabeth,” he said, “I won’t take the case. I’ve other work planned for tomorrow.”
And he turned to leave the room.
Who but a villain could have turned his back on such a woman and at such a time? She stiffened; her head went back; there was a tremor of coming speech in her throat. “She is about to play her last card,” a gambler would have said, and she played it.
“John!” she called.
The villain turned only half toward her at the door.
“There is another reason why you must defend McCurtney,” she said. “I love him!”
It sufficed to make the villain turn squarely toward her, but he showed not the least emotion. His head bowed a little, thoughtfully.
“Ah!” he repeated. “You love him?”
And with that he shifted his glance up suddenly and met her eyes. She shrank back, trembling. One could see that she was expectant of a blow, a torrent of abuse. Instead, he smiled slowly at her.
She made a little gesture. There seemed more appeal than anger in it.
“You don’t care, John? I knew you didn’t care!”
“If you love him,” said the villain slowly, “I suppose I don’t care.”
“You never have,” she answered. “You merely bought me—with your courtroom eloquence, and your money—just as you would buy a fine piece of furniture. You wanted a decorative wife for your home—someone you could be proud to show.”
It was not a quarrel, you see. For it happened in the twentieth century; happened yesterday, in fact. Neither of them raised their voices. There fell a little silence, and silences always make a woman explain.
“I’ve tried to love you,” she said. “I’ve tried to break through that hard exterior you wear like armor. I’ve guessed at depths and tendernesses in you, but the only time I’ve heard poetry in your voice was when you said before the minister, ‘I will!’ Since then I’ve waited for a touch of that sound to come back into your voice, but it never has, and gradually I’ve learned the truth—you never really cared for me.”
John Barrett was a villain; also a vulgar man.
“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” he said. “If I haven’t seemed to love you, why—I haven’t.”
And he grinned; it was not by any means a smile. She shuddered as if those hands of his, made for gripping great burdens, had closed on a vital nerve that ran to her heart. She turned away, veiling her eyes with her hand. Surely it was strange that a man could give up such beauty!
“And will you defend him?” she asked in a whisper.
“If you love him,” said Barrett, “I shall set him free for you. Good night, Elizabeth!”
He strode out of the room. She ran after him a few steps and followed him with her eyes down the long vista of the rooms; but the massive shoulders went on their way with characteristic swagger; the bowed thoughtful head never once cast back a glance toward her.
“It