CHAPTER XXXIV.Defense“All satisfied, then?” Sam questioned. “All satisfied that Martha killed her, and that Chad carried the body upstairs and hid it for her, and left the false clues—including the tatting shuttle, for reasons unknown—and came down, merry and happy enough, until he took a sudden notion to write a false confession and walk out and shoot himself through the head?”I was satisfied; but I felt like a fool for so being, when Sam put it like that. I said nothing.Hubert Hand said, “It looks like a pretty clear case, Sam.”“Does? What’s become of your clear case against John, unchanged tires, and everything?”“I had not heard Ollie’s story, then.”“Dad,” there was pleading in John’s voice, “you don’t mean to say that you can’t see the thing? That you aren’t satisfied with this absolutely logical explanation?”“Yes,” Sam answered, with his most dangerous drawl, “that’s what I mean to say. It takes more, or seems to, to satisfy me than it takes to satisfy some folks. Satisfied? Not by a damn sight!”John lost his temper. “For the love of Pete, why aren’t you? What would satisfy you? Say? What are you trying to do? Do you like the case against me so well that you can’t give it up? You made us all come clean the other day, or tried to. Come clean yourself, now? What have you got up your sleeve?”“I’ve got a couple of good fighting arms up my sleeve,” Sam answered. “And I’ve got a daughter, dead, in a grave up there. Since she was knee high to a duck, she’s counted on me, for food, and shelter, and protection generally. I don’t know—but I reckon she may still be counting on me, somewhere not too far away, for protection. She is going to have it.”Mrs. Ricker began to cry, quietly; but Sam saw her.“No, no, Mrs. Ricker,” he said, “don’t get me wrong in this. You believe that she was guilty. I believe that she is innocent. Believing that way, it is my bounden duty to clear her name. It is my fault that she isn’t here to stand up for herself. It is my fault, too, I guess, that I’ve raised John so that he won’t stand up for his own womenfolks——”“That’s rotten of you, dad. It is unfair. I’d stand up for Martha till the cows came home. But what’s the use of bucking straight facts?”“Damn your straight facts. We haven’t got any. I’ve a few straight fact questions, though, that will blow this story galley-west. Here’s one of them:“Does it stand to reason that, for two months, Gaby lived right here unharmed by Martha? But that, on the very day, when she feared death from some outside enemy, Martha should kill her?”“It is coincidental,” John admitted. “But, just the same, there are lots of coincidences. We all meet them, all the time.”“It wasn’t a coincidence that Gaby was afraid of meeting, when she walked out of this house on the fourth of July. Here’s another question.“Mrs. Ricker, she says, was plumb convinced that Martha committed the murder, and that I helped her by carrying the body upstairs afterwards. She thought this the night of the murder, and the next day, and ever since. Why, then, didn’t she come to me and, anyway, put out a feeler or two in my direction? She knew that I’d go as far to save Martha as she would go. I wouldn’t protect John, nor any other person on this place; but Martha was a child—younger, even, than a child in some ways. Mrs. Ricker knew that I’d save Martha with my last dollar, and, as somebody said the other day, with my last lie. Mrs. Ricker and I were alone together for more than half an hour the morning of the fifth. Why didn’t she give me a hint, then, of any of this?”“I—I was afraid,” Mrs. Ricker answered. “I was waiting. I thought that you would give me the hint—the sign. I was not sure——”“Not sure then, but sure now?”“I tell you,” Mrs. Ricker flared up, “I was afraid. So long as she was living, I was afraid of everything—of everyone. I was afraid of myself. I dared not think; I dared not look. I scarcely lifted my eyes from my tatting. I—I was afraid.”“Now, now,” Sam said. “I see your point in that, especially since talking had got you in bad once. But—see here. I said a while ago that I’d always known you were a good woman. Well, I am going to keep on knowing it, for the present. There are enough folks around here to jump at conclusions without me doing it. But you, thinking as you say you think, directly accused Danny the other day. That was not the act of a good woman——”“God, Ollie!” Hubert Hand burst out. “He is going to try to pin it on you, to save Martha and the Stanley name—even yet.”“You,” Sam said, “are a liar.”“Safe enough. I wouldn’t fight you, and you know it, old man.”Sam jumped to his feet. I had to stumble over John, but I managed to reach Sam first, and to stand in front of him. “Boys, boys,” I begged. “Not here. Not in this house to-night. Remember——”Hubert stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away. Sam dropped into his chair. The telephone bell, in the other room, began to ring.
“All satisfied, then?” Sam questioned. “All satisfied that Martha killed her, and that Chad carried the body upstairs and hid it for her, and left the false clues—including the tatting shuttle, for reasons unknown—and came down, merry and happy enough, until he took a sudden notion to write a false confession and walk out and shoot himself through the head?”
I was satisfied; but I felt like a fool for so being, when Sam put it like that. I said nothing.
Hubert Hand said, “It looks like a pretty clear case, Sam.”
“Does? What’s become of your clear case against John, unchanged tires, and everything?”
“I had not heard Ollie’s story, then.”
“Dad,” there was pleading in John’s voice, “you don’t mean to say that you can’t see the thing? That you aren’t satisfied with this absolutely logical explanation?”
“Yes,” Sam answered, with his most dangerous drawl, “that’s what I mean to say. It takes more, or seems to, to satisfy me than it takes to satisfy some folks. Satisfied? Not by a damn sight!”
John lost his temper. “For the love of Pete, why aren’t you? What would satisfy you? Say? What are you trying to do? Do you like the case against me so well that you can’t give it up? You made us all come clean the other day, or tried to. Come clean yourself, now? What have you got up your sleeve?”
“I’ve got a couple of good fighting arms up my sleeve,” Sam answered. “And I’ve got a daughter, dead, in a grave up there. Since she was knee high to a duck, she’s counted on me, for food, and shelter, and protection generally. I don’t know—but I reckon she may still be counting on me, somewhere not too far away, for protection. She is going to have it.”
Mrs. Ricker began to cry, quietly; but Sam saw her.
“No, no, Mrs. Ricker,” he said, “don’t get me wrong in this. You believe that she was guilty. I believe that she is innocent. Believing that way, it is my bounden duty to clear her name. It is my fault that she isn’t here to stand up for herself. It is my fault, too, I guess, that I’ve raised John so that he won’t stand up for his own womenfolks——”
“That’s rotten of you, dad. It is unfair. I’d stand up for Martha till the cows came home. But what’s the use of bucking straight facts?”
“Damn your straight facts. We haven’t got any. I’ve a few straight fact questions, though, that will blow this story galley-west. Here’s one of them:
“Does it stand to reason that, for two months, Gaby lived right here unharmed by Martha? But that, on the very day, when she feared death from some outside enemy, Martha should kill her?”
“It is coincidental,” John admitted. “But, just the same, there are lots of coincidences. We all meet them, all the time.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence that Gaby was afraid of meeting, when she walked out of this house on the fourth of July. Here’s another question.
“Mrs. Ricker, she says, was plumb convinced that Martha committed the murder, and that I helped her by carrying the body upstairs afterwards. She thought this the night of the murder, and the next day, and ever since. Why, then, didn’t she come to me and, anyway, put out a feeler or two in my direction? She knew that I’d go as far to save Martha as she would go. I wouldn’t protect John, nor any other person on this place; but Martha was a child—younger, even, than a child in some ways. Mrs. Ricker knew that I’d save Martha with my last dollar, and, as somebody said the other day, with my last lie. Mrs. Ricker and I were alone together for more than half an hour the morning of the fifth. Why didn’t she give me a hint, then, of any of this?”
“I—I was afraid,” Mrs. Ricker answered. “I was waiting. I thought that you would give me the hint—the sign. I was not sure——”
“Not sure then, but sure now?”
“I tell you,” Mrs. Ricker flared up, “I was afraid. So long as she was living, I was afraid of everything—of everyone. I was afraid of myself. I dared not think; I dared not look. I scarcely lifted my eyes from my tatting. I—I was afraid.”
“Now, now,” Sam said. “I see your point in that, especially since talking had got you in bad once. But—see here. I said a while ago that I’d always known you were a good woman. Well, I am going to keep on knowing it, for the present. There are enough folks around here to jump at conclusions without me doing it. But you, thinking as you say you think, directly accused Danny the other day. That was not the act of a good woman——”
“God, Ollie!” Hubert Hand burst out. “He is going to try to pin it on you, to save Martha and the Stanley name—even yet.”
“You,” Sam said, “are a liar.”
“Safe enough. I wouldn’t fight you, and you know it, old man.”
Sam jumped to his feet. I had to stumble over John, but I managed to reach Sam first, and to stand in front of him. “Boys, boys,” I begged. “Not here. Not in this house to-night. Remember——”
Hubert stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away. Sam dropped into his chair. The telephone bell, in the other room, began to ring.