The Suspect

“How much do you want?” the pawnbroker asked.

“Oh,” I said, with an air of assumed indifference, “a hundred will do.”

The pawnbroker gave me a queer, sharp look, one which he instantly diverted to the gold cigarette case, a rather elaborate affair, that I had offered him, and which had on it in jewels the initials K. M.

He looked up at me again.

“At auction it wouldn’t bring half that. Twenty is the best I can do.”

It was idle to argue; besides, I never can haggle. But I needed more. I told him so. In the telling, I produced a watch, also gold, also initialed, one that had in it the miniature of a girl’s fair face.

He looked it over, and, darting another queer glance at me, snapped: “Fifteen!”

At once, as I nodded, he got out some bills, which he fumbled meditatively, much as though he had never seen them before.

Behind him was a telephone; also a row of shelves on which were hideous things. In between was a counter, topped with glass, through which I could see brooches, bracelets, rings⁠—the lamentable tokens of disastrous days. Beyond, at the rear of the shop, a man bent heavily over an enormous ledger. Without was the roar of the Bowery; within an odor of camphor. At my elbow was the telephone book, and before me the pawnbroker, a sinister and sinewy brute.

“I haven’t quite got it,” he suddenly exclaimed.

He turned, put the watch and case on a shelf, took the receiver from the hook, and, after a moment, called: “Three thousand one hundred, Spring.”

“Three thousand one hundred, Spring?” he presently resumed. “This is Alfred Cohen. Yes. Send Jakey with change for a hundred. What? Sure! Shake a foot.”

With that, he replaced the receiver, turned again, and threw out: “Fine day!”

“Very,” I threw back.

Then indifferently, as though for the mere distraction of it, I took up the telephone book, and opened it, haphazard, in the middle. I had hit the mark, though. There it was: “Police Headqts, 3100 Spring.” I turned the page, flipped at another, closed the book, put it down, and dropped into the obvious:

“What would we do without telephones?”

Mr. Cohen gurgled appreciatively:

“There you are!”

“Or,” I continued, “without cigars? While we are waiting for Jakey, I’ll go and get one.” Ingratiatingly I added: “I’ll get two.”

As I spoke, I turned. Before me, through the grating and glass of the door, came the glitter of the street, the shriek of trains, the grunt of cars, the shapes of passers⁠—instantly effaced.

Between me and the door was Mr. Cohen. He had vaulted the counter, and at the moment was calling overloudly, I thought, to the man with the ledger.

“You be quiet,” he oddly admonished me. “Here,” he interrupted himself to bawl over my head, “this feller’s wanted.”

I turned again. From the rear of the shop there had sprung a creature who more nearly resembled a gorilla than any human being I had ever seen.

Unconcernedly I nodded.

“How do do?” Then, rising to his level, I added: “Our friend here seems to have got them again.”

“I’ve got you!” I heard Cohen retort.

But at once, so far as I was concerned, he and the gorilla ceased to exist. I was concerned only that now at last I was in for it, and the consciousness brought that sense of curious relief which I suppose is known only to those who, like me, have been “wanted,” and who, in consequence, have been obliged to turn and twist, to walk in silence and in secret ways, to feel always that they are hunted.

That is the way I had felt, and so acutely that now, the end of my tether reached, I forgot that Cohen and the other brute existed. But to such an indignity, they must have refused to submit. I heard them talking⁠—calling, rather⁠—at each other in German; but their greasy gutturals were as unheeded by me as was the slam bang of the elevated.

That which finally aroused me was the entrance of Jakey⁠—two men; one slim, in plain clothes; the other fat, and in uniform. The latter, a billy pendant but probably prompt in his hand, marched up and put his other hand on my shoulder. As he did so, I noticed the ledger fiend slinking, with an air of abasement, away, and it occurred to me that his conscience was not, perhaps, all that it might be.

“When no man pursueth!” I flung at his retreating back; but he squirmed, dodged, vanished.

At this the plainclothes man, who had been talking with Cohen in an open, unaffected, and very uncomplimentary manner about me, sidled suddenly up, ran his hands over me, found that I was unarmed, and said⁠—and nicely enough: “You’ll go quietly?”

I smiled at him.

“Dear me! I hate a fuss as much as you do; perhaps even more. But would it be indiscreet of me to ask where I am going?”

He smiled back at me. “It would not be indiscreet; it would be excessive. You know.”

Well, as for that, he was right; and during the immediate and brief promenade to headquarters I said nothing further, except to ask for a cigarette from that case which, with the watch, Cohen had turned over to him. He obligingly gave it to me, flattering me as he did so by saying: “I like your nerve.”

But as we were entering the building I again spoke to him:

“I must have an attorney, you know, and I will have to get bail.”

He nodded.

“You’ll get an attorney in court fast enough. This, though, is not a bailable matter.”

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “There is only one of that kind.”

“And that’s yours.”

The reply sent a shudder through me. Robbery⁠—yes, I had expected that; but murder! At the moment I felt that no one had ever known what horror is⁠—that I alone knew. But I have at least a modicum of common sense, and it surged at once to my rescue. Often I have told myself⁠—and others⁠—that it is stupid to be afraid of anything, no matter what, except danger, damp sheets, and one’s own misdeeds. I told myself so then. In the telling I reflected that while, after all, I may have murdered a tune or two, yet otherwise⁠—no, they might hold me, but never could they keep me on any such charge.

Further meditations were for the moment interrupted. Between the two men, one of whom still had a hand on my shoulder, I had marched along a hall, and was now taken into a room where sat one of the finest⁠—a good-looking chap, with alert eyes and a drooping mustache.

“We’ve got him, inspector!” said my friend in plain clothes. In the restrained idiom of the street, he added: “And with the goods on.”

In speaking, he produced the watch and cigarette case, which the inspector, with a curious smile, examined.

Abruptly he looked up at me. The smile had gone.

“Where did you get these things?”

I was about to tell him I had forgotten; but, rallying, I answered:

“They were given me.”

At that, point-blank, he fired:

“By Kenneth Mar?”

I dodged it:

“No, not by Kenneth Mar.”

Before firing again, he pursed his lips.

“You knew him, though?”

I shrugged my free shoulder.

“Slightly.”

For a second he seemed to be taking that in; then at once, without warning, he shot out:

“What did you do with the body?”

At this explosion I started.

“Nothing whatever. What should I have done with it? Why do you ask?”

He helped himself, coolly enough, I thought, to a cigarette from that case, lighted it contemplatively, nodded, and said:

“I’ll tell you.” He paused, inhaled the smoke, blew it, and added: “A week ago today, Kenneth Mar escorted a young woman to her home. He went to the door with her, waited until it was opened, went away, passed an acquaintance, who saw him approach an apartment house in which he lived, and which was a bit beyond. But that house Mar never entered. No one has seen Mar since. On the day when he disappeared, the young woman whom he took to her home knew that he had that case and that watch with him. In that watch is her own picture. Where did you get it? Answer me!”

It was rather a volley, but I faced it.

“Really, inspector, I shall have to throw myself on your indulgence. I have a very poor memory⁠—particularly for anything important⁠—and I can only assure you that⁠—that⁠—”

He cut me short:

“Where have you been living these last few days?”

The unexpected twist pulled the truth out of me:

“Nine ninety-nine Great Jones Street.”

At this, with that gravity which, even in serious matters, officials will display, he motioned at the policeman.

“Take him in there.”

Immediately to the plainclothes man he added:

“Telephone for Miss Faille.”

In so ordering, he looked at me, to judge, perhaps, the effect of that name; and at once, as I turned to enter the room which he had indicated, I fell to thinking of this girl whom I knew Kenneth Mar had loved. Knowledge of that intimate fact was not confined to me. Everybody knew it⁠—everybody, that is, who reads the papers; and for the past week the papers had dripped with this matter which the inspector had briefly resumed. But though the outlines, and particularly the headlines, of the mystery were familiar enough to all, yet the deeper mystery that was behind it was not solved until later; and then generally resolved itself into the verdict that Kenneth Mar was cracked.

A man in love usually is a bit off. In France, pathologists so ordinarily recognize the fact that they classify the condition as a disease induced by a fermentation of the molecules of the imagination. Assuming the diagnosis to be correct, necessarily there must exist a superinducing cause. In the present instance that cause was Janet Faille. The mere sight of her was headier than cups of champagne. At the risk of appearing extravagant⁠—an appearance parenthetically for which I have no great dislike⁠—I can compare her only to the first heroine of the first hexameters, that vision at sight of whose undreamed-of beauty the Trojans stopped, and stood, and mused.

A young person of such allurement is bound to have many suitors, and Janet Faille had. Among the favored were Kenneth Mar and another man, who must have been a genius, for thus far he had managed to keep his name out of print.

Between the two Janet Faille had seemed to hesitate. Yet it may be that she seemed to only. In the depths of her delicate heart, perhaps she knew.

It was in these circumstances that the mystery occurred, and I, who, for my sins, had been instrumental in it hid in shabby lodgings until what money I had was gone, and I was forced into the disastrous visit to Cohen and his gorilla friend. Never in the world would I have gone to that shop, or to any other of the kind, had I known that descriptions of the watch and of the cigarette case had been sent about. The papers had supplied me with every variety of imaginable and unimaginable information concerning the matter; yet of these things not a word.

On the contrary, you were told that Kenneth Mar was not precisely a pauper; that he claimed to be a composer; that he was young, blue-eyed, dark-haired, without an enemy in the world or an idea in his head; in short, a nonentity with a few dollars in his pocket, who, on that account, may have been held up, knocked out, and otherwise disposed of. Or, if not, then that he must have developed a secondary personality, lost all knowledge of who he really was, and would ultimately be discovered in the guise of a dairymaid on a Kansas farm, or as an eremite in a Harlem flat. These things, and more besides, the papers gave; but of the watch and cigarette case never a word. There was the trick that caught me.

Meanwhile, from the outer room there had been filtering the sound of voices and of brief, unemphasized commands. If I heard, I did not heed. Engrossed as I was in that trick, I had forgotten even the presence of the fat policeman, who sat beside me⁠—a club in one hand, my arm in the other.

But now my attention veered. Before me over the open door was a painting of a girl, the mediocre copy of an inferior daub which, years before, I had seen in the Paris Salon. At the thought of that jungle, of its mile after mile of improbable nymphs and vaselined landscapes, ardently I wished myself back there. Two hours of it, succeeded by massage, was, I knew, excellent for obesity. No doubt a bicycle is better, but that is no longer modish, and I told myself there should be something for every taste, however infastidious.

Again I looked at the painting. In spite of the sin of it, it suggested somebody⁠—but whom? Then suddenly I knew, for as suddenly I heard her. In those accents which certain sections of Fifth Avenue share with Mayfair, Janet Faille was talking to the inspector.

I started. But that hand on my shoulder gripped me. The prompt billy had jumped.

“No,” I heard her say, “it is not an inconvenience. I had intended coming. When I last saw you I was not entirely frank.”

“And you will be so now, Miss Faille?” I heard the inspector interject, and interject, moreover, in a tone so different from that in which he had spoken to me that I wondered could he be a ventriloquist. But, then, beauty is a great emollient.

“I told you,” the girl was saying, “that I had no theory. That was untrue. But though I did have one, you will, perhaps, appreciate why I did not mention it. You know that Mr. Mar was⁠—well, that he admired me.”

“He would have been blind if he had not,” that man threw in.

“But what you do not know,” the girl resumed, “is that I cared for him also. Oh, very, very much more than he knew⁠—far more than I let him imagine. I was even guilty of trying to get him to think that I was interested elsewhere, when I was not⁠—not in the very least, believe me.”

I could not see her tears, but it seemed to me I heard them. Yet presently, with a tremor in that voice of silk, the tale continued, and, though I could not see, I could fancy her two hands crushed together.

“Well, that last afternoon, when he took me home⁠—”

“Permit me,” the inspector interrupted. “The other man⁠—the one whom you seemed to favor⁠—have you seen him since?”

“No, no⁠—nor shall I ever again.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, nor do I want to.”

“What is he like?”

“Tall and dark, with regular features.”

At this the policeman beside me turned. He was looking me over.

Meanwhile, that voice which I have compared to silk became like a thread snapped swiftly. There was silence in the outer room⁠—yet a silence that was punctuated soon by little sobs, by little, herculean efforts to arrest them.

“I wish I were dead!” she at last cried out. “It was I who killed him.”

“Miss Faille!” the inspector protested.

“Yes. At first I thought he had gone away to try me, to see if in his absence I would not give some sign to show⁠—to show⁠—And now! Is it not clear that, since you have those things of his, he must have killed himself, and that it was I who drove him to it?”

After the logic of that again for a moment there was silence. Then, with the customary combination of platitude and imagination, the inspector went at it:

“You see, Miss Faille, in matters of this kind the obvious is very misleading. The person from whom we got this watch and cigarette case has been hiding in Great Jones Street. I have sent to the place, and I find that he took lodgings there shortly after Mar’s disappearance. I find, too, that, except at night, and except today, when we got him, always he remained locked in his room.”

Once more there was a sob, the effort to subdue it, another little cry:

“He must have⁠—Oh, he must have found Kenneth, and robbed him. Don’t you think so?”

“If he did, he found him before he was lost. But everything is possible. It is possible, for instance, that the man whom you seemed to favor, but who doubtless knew that in reality you preferred Mar, did away with him for that very reason, and then, that the crime might be attributed to a footpad, pocketed his valuables. That is usual, but what is usual, also, once the crime committed, he lost his nerve, and ran to cover.”

“What a Solomon!” I thought.

“Here!” I heard the inspector call. “Bring the suspect in here.”

In a moment I was before them⁠—before the inspector, rather, for Janet’s back was toward me.

Slowly she turned; her deep eyes widened, her mouth half opened, closed, opened again; with a little bleat, she started to me, while, from over her shoulder, she called:

“This is Kenneth Mar!”

I would have laughed. I knew that what she said was true; knew that she was, also; knew, too, that I had hidden away for the very reason she stated, in order that some sign of hers might show whether she cared for me or for another.

I would have laughed, I say. But I was only just in time to catch her. She had fainted.

It was from sheer joy, she later told me. Yet even now I scarcely dare believe it.