'Firebrand' Trevison by Charles Alden Seltzer (ebook reader for manga .TXT) 📕

“Then you didn’t see the Judge last night—or hear him?”

“No.”

Corrigan drew the Judge’s letter from the pocket and passed it over to Braman, watching his face steadily as he read. He saw a quick stain appear in the banker’s cheeks, and his own lips tightened.

The banker coughed before he spoke. “Wasn’t that a rather abrupt leave-taking?”

“Yes—rather,” said Corrigan, dryly. “You didn’t hear him walking about during the night?”

“No.”

“You’re rather a heavy sleeper, eh? There is only a thin board partition between this building and the courthouse.”

“He must have left after daylight. Of course, any noise he might have made after that I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“No, of course not,” said Corrigan, passionlessly. “Well—he’s gone.” He seemed to have dismissed the matter from his mind and Braman sighed with relief. But he watched Corrigan narrowly during the remainder of the time he stayed in the office, and when he went out, Braman shook a vindictive fist at his back.

“Worry, damn you!” he sneered. “I don’t know what was in Judge Lindman’s mind, but I hope he never comes back! That will help to repay you for that knockdown!”

Corrigan went over to the Castle and ate supper. He was preoccupied and deliberate, for he was trying to weave a complete fabric out of the threads of Braman’s visits to Hester Harvey; Hester’s ride westward, and Judge Lindman’s abrupt departure. He had a feeling that they were in some way connected.

At a little after seven he finished his meal, went upstairs and knocked at the door of Hester Harvey’s room. He stepped inside when she opened the door, and stood, both hands in the pockets of his trousers, looking at her with a smile of repressed malignance.

“Nice night for a ride, wasn’t it?” he said, his lips parting a very little to allow the words to filter through.

The woman flashed a quick, inquiring look at him, saw the passion in his eyes, the gleam of malevolent antagonism, and she set herself against it. For her talk with Trevison last night had convinced her of the futility of hope. She had gone out of his life as a commonplace incident slips into the oblivion of yesteryear. Worse—he had refused to recall it. It hurt her, this knowledge—his rebuff. It had aroused cold, wanton passions in her—she had become a woman who did not care. She met Corrigan’s gaze with a look of defiant mockery.

“Swell. I enjoyed every minute of it. Won’t you sit down?”

He held himself back, grinning coldly, for the woman’s look had goaded him to fury.

“No,” he said; “I’ll stand. I won’t be here a minute. You saw Trevison last night, eh? You warned him that I was going to have Carson arrested.” He had hazarded this guess, for it had seemed to him that it must be the solution to the mystery, and when he caught the quick, triumphant light in the woman’s eyes at his words he knew he had not erred.

“Yes,” she said; “I saw him, and I told him—what Braman told me.” She saw his eyes glitter and she laughed harshly. “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it, Jeff—what Braman told me? Well, you know it. I knew you couldn’t play square with me. You thought you could dupe me—again, didn’t you? Well, you didn’t, for I snared Braman and pumped him dry. He’s kept me posted on your movements; and his little board telephone—Ha, ha! that makes you squirm, doesn’t it? But it was all wasted effort—Trevison won’t have me—he’s through. And I’m through. I’m not going to try any more. I’m going back East, after I get rested. You fight it out with Trevison. But I warn you, he’ll beat you—and I wish he would! As for that beast, Braman, I wish—Ah, let him go, Jeff,” she advised, noting the cold fury in his eyes.

“That’s all right,” he said with a dry laugh. “You and Braman have done well. It hasn’t done me any harm, and so we’ll forget about it. What do you say to having a drink—and a talk. As in old times, eh?” He seemed suddenly to have conquered his passion, but the queer twitching of his lips warned the woman, and when he essayed to move toward her, smiling pallidly, she darted to the far side of a stand near the center of the room, pulled out a drawer, produced a small revolver and leveled it at him, her eyes wide and glittering with menace.

“Stay where you are, Jeff!” she ordered. “There’s murder in your heart, and I know it. But I don’t intend to be the victim. I’ll shoot if you come one step nearer!”

He smirked at her, venomously. “All right,” he said. “You’re wise. But get out of town on the next train.”

“I’ll go when I get ready—you can’t scare me. Let me alone or I’ll go to Rosalind Benham and let her in on the whole scheme.”

“Yes you will—not,” he laughed. “If I know anything about you, you won’t do anything that would give Miss Benham to Trevison.”

“That’s right; I’d rather see her married to you—that would be the refinement of cruelty!”

He laughed sneeringly and stepped out of the door. Waiting a short time, the woman heard his step in the hall. Then she darted to the door, locked it, and leaned against it, panting.

“I’ve done it now,” she murmured. “Braman—Well, it serves him right!”

Corrigan stopped in the barroom and got a drink. Then he walked to the front door and stood in it for an instant, finally stepping down into the street. Across the street in the banking room he saw a thin streak of light gleaming through a crevice in the doorway that led from the banking room to the rear. The light told him that Braman was in the rear room. Selecting a moment when the street in his vicinity was deserted, Corrigan deliberately crossed, standing for a moment in the shadow of the bank building, looking around him. Then he slipped around the building and tapped cautiously on the rear door. An instant later he was standing inside the room, his back against the door. Braman, arrayed as he had been the night before, had opened the door. He had been just ready to go when he heard Corrigan’s knock.

“Going out, Croft?” said Corrigan pleasantly, eyeing the other intently. “All lit up, too! You’re getting to be a gay dog, lately.”

There was nothing in Corrigan’s bantering words to bring on that sudden qualm of sickening fear that seized the banker. He knew it was his guilt that had done it—guilt and perhaps a dread of Corrigan’s rage if he should learn of his duplicity. But that word “lately”! If it had been uttered with any sort of an accent he might have been suspicious. But it had come with the bantering ring of the others, with no hint of special significance. And Braman was reassured.

“Yes, I’m going out.” He turned to the mirror on the wall. “I’m getting rather stale, hanging around here so much.”

“That’s right, Croft. Have a good time. How much money is there in the safe?”

“Two or three thousand dollars.” The banker turned from the glass. “Want some? Ha, ha!” he laughed at the other’s short nod; “there are other gay dogs, I guess! How much do you want?”

“All you’ve got?”

“All! Jehoshaphat! You must have a big deal on tonight!”

“Yes, big,” said Corrigan evenly. “Get it.”

He followed the banker into the banking room, carefully closing the door behind him, so that the light from the rear room could not penetrate. “That’s all right,” he reassured the banker as the latter noticed the action; “this isn’t a public matter.”

He stuffed his pockets with the money the banker gave him, and when the other tried to close the door of the safe he interposed a restraining hand, laughing:

“Leave it open, Croft. It’s empty now, and a cracksman trying to get into it would ruin a perfectly good safe, for nothing.”

“That’s right.”

They went into the rear room again, Corrigan last, closing the door behind him. Braman went again to the glass, Corrigan standing silently behind him.

Standing before the glass, the banker was seized with a repetition of the sickening fear that had oppressed him at Corrigan’s words upon his entrance. It seemed to him that there was a sinister significance behind Corrigan’s present silence. A tension came between them, portentous of evil. Braman shivered, but the silence held. The banker tried to think of something to say—his thoughts were rioting in chaos, a dumb, paralyzing terror had seized him, his lips stuck together, the facial muscles refusing their office. He dropped his hands to his sides and stared into the glass, noting the ghastly pallor that had come over his face—the dull, whitish yellow of muddy marble. He could not turn, his legs were quivering. He knew it was conscience—only that. And yet Corrigan’s ominous silence continued. And now he caught his breath with a shuddering gasp, for he saw Corrigan’s face reflected in the glass, looking over his shoulder—a mirthless smirk on it, the eyes cold, and dancing with a merciless and cunning purpose. While he watched, he saw Corrigan’s lips open:

“Where’s the board telephone, Braman?”

The banker wheeled, then. He tried to scream—the sound died in a gasping gurgle as Corrigan leaped and throttled him. Later, he fought to loosen the grip of the iron fingers at his throat, twisting, squirming, threshing about the room in his agony. The grip held, tightened. When the banker was quite still Corrigan put out the light, went into the banking room, where he scattered the papers and books in the safe all around the room. Then he twisted the lock off the door, using an iron bar that he had noticed in a corner when he had come in, and stepped out into the shadow of the building.