“He often does that?”
“Usually. He says it isn’t necessary to keep old obsolete records because there isn’t any income tax any longer—”
Howard was still breathless. He leaned back in his chair and regarded Miss Forster with love. “So, it wasn’t unusual at all not to have a file on those young ladies?”
“No. Though he doesn’t throw away files unless they have been paid, of course, or he has decided not to charge the patient—he is so very charitable, you know, Howard, so
feel’ ing,
so pitiful toward the poor—”
“Yes, yes, I understand that. Amelia, if called on, would you swear that these bills, though dated last November by you, on demand, were really made out only three weeks ago, because the patients claimed to have forgotten the original bills, though they knew the amounts?”
“Swear, Howard?” Miss Forster was aghast.
“You know what an affidavit is?”
“Yes. I do know, certainly. No one has ever doubted my word in this town, so—”
“Dear, sweet Amelia. If I make out an affidavit for you in my office, will you swear to it—all right, don’t shake your head—will you affirm that it is true, all these facts you have given me?”
“I will do that, Howard.” Miss Forster looked resolute. “But I do not understand what this all means; you have given me only a brief sketch of some nefarious plot against Doctor—”
Howard considered her. “Those young ladies, Amelia have already made out affidavits to the effect that on those dates last November, Jon aborted them right here in his examination rooms.”
Miss Forster’s thin and colorless mouth fell open and her eyes bulged on Howard, and then a dark crimson rushed over her dry face. She looked away and blinked rapidly.
“I thought you understood, Amelia, when I told you that certain females have alleged that Jon performed upon them —well, what is considered illegal surgery.”
“No. I did not,” said Miss Forster in a stiff voice. “I thought you meant surgery which should have been performed in a hospital, but Doctor decided to do it here without anesthetic— This is very wrong, you know, and not to be justified, if true, but—”
“I was talking of something called criminal operations, Amelia.”
Miss Forster stood up, very agitated. “You must excuse me, Howard. I feel quite ill. I must he down for a few moments.”
Howard stood up also. He took her arm. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I understand. But now you see what this all really means. All right, dear, cry if you must, but try to listen. You see the enormity of the dangerous charges against Jon?”
“Yes, yes. But surely no one could be so evil? Those girls —they were pale and poor and very gentle, and talked to me so nicely, and were so apologetic about not bringing the bills, and I thought how well-mannered they were for their station in life, which was obvious.”
Howard smiled at the stilted language. He hugged Miss Forester very gently.
“How is it
possible,
Howard, for such meek little things to be so
wicked?”
“Well, I’ve heard that demons often disguise themselves prettily.”
“I—my father—we didn’t believe in demons, Howard.”
“They certainly exist. Never mind. But if it will help you, I can almost assure you that those girls did not think of all this by themselves. I think their names were furnished to certain parties. It doesn’t matter, dear Amelia. Perhaps some force was exerted on them, or threats, to make them perjure themselves. We may possibly never know.”
She blew her nose, which had become quite swollen, and mutely nodded her head. She still had not grasped in full the extensiveness of the plot to ruin Jonathan Ferrier, though now she could see the dim outline.
“And on Monday, Amelia, you will come to my office to —affirm—that affidavit?”
“Yes. But what excuse shall I give Doctor? I can’t lie, Howard, and I have promised you not to tell him of these— matters.”
“You must tell him that you have a matter of business with a lawyer, which will take but a few minutes. After all, my office is only ten minutes walk from here.”
She clasped her hands tightly together with new agitation. “Oh, Howard, what a frightful thing to do to Doctor! These people must be punished, punished, punished!”
Then Howard said, “Do you recall a Mrs. Edna Beamish, Amelia?”
She frowned and thought, then nodded. “Oh, yes, a most hysterical lady.”
She told Howard of what he already knew, and her voice rose indignantly. “Such a vulgar display! Rushing out with her hat in her hand, and waving her parasol as if demented. Really!”
“She did not appear to be in pain, or hurt?”
Amelia looked at him in astonishment. “Why, no, not at all. I did hear her scream that Doctor was hurting her, and then Dr. Morgan went at once to the examination rooms—he was across the hall, and I saw him, because I was so alarmed that I opened the door, and I heard their voices, and Doctor was laughing as if at a joke, and Dr. Morgan swore a little. I did hear that. And then I hardly reached my desk again—I was truly astounded—when she burst out into this room and screamed at all of us here, the patients and myself, that Doctor had hurt her, and I almost laughed, for he has never hurt anyone—”
“You are a jewel, Amelia.” Howard patted her shoulder. “I will include that in the affidavit, too.” He had another thought. “Do you know if Jon still keeps the instruments his father gave him?”
“Yes. In a locked cabinet.”
“No one has the key but him?”
“No one. Not even Dr. Morgan, who would not need them anyway. There is another cabinet, quite complete, in the other examination room, and Dr. Morgan has the key to that. Not surgical instruments, however, but just for examination. Our hospitals are modern, you know.”
Howard went into the white and deserted examination room and studied Jonathan’s cabinet and saw the expensive instruments on their white and silken beds. He saw where the curette had lain, and he saw the dark pepper of dust in the empty indentation. Who had taken Jonathan’s instrument? Who had had access to his keys? The only answer was—his wife. Howard stood, rubbing his chin, staring absently through the glass doors of the cabinet. Mavis. So, Mavis had taken the instrument. The question was, why? Mavis had been a stupid young woman. She would not have known the name, or the use, of the curette—unless it had been described to her.
Miss Forster was still waiting for him, for she must lock up the offices.
“Amelia,” he said, “several people, both men and women, were here in this office on the day Mrs. Beamish ran out accusing Jon of ‘hurting’ her. Some parties have sought them out, and they have—with some reluctance—made affidavits of the affair, as much as they remembered of it. I haven’t been able to understand how they found the names of Jon’s patients on that day.”
Miss Forster stared, then leaned forward. “Why, Howard, I think I can tell you that. At least, I do think so. A gentleman, who said he was a police official—I have no doubt but what he was, for he showed me his credentials—said that some lady claimed to have left her purse, containing a considerable amount of money, in this office. I do not recall the particular lady in the least. There were so many, many, on that day. I was told the exact date, and I did get out a few cards and gave the police officer the names of four or five people. It was the day, I remembered later, when Mrs. Beamish was here. The police official said that perhaps a lady had mistakenly picked up the purse, or a gentleman had taken it, believing it was his wife’s, and I remember being puzzled, for with the exception of Mrs. Beamish on that day there were no absolute strangers waiting to see the doctors, and I
know
that there were no thieves among them! I gave the official a piece of my mind, and I told him—”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
Miss Forster considered, then shook her head. “No, I do not think so. A very nondescript little man. Howard, do you think he was a fraud? Do you think he lied to me?”
“I don’t think he was a fraud,” said Howard with grimness. “But he lied to you. He wanted those names for affidavits against Jon. Of course, he probably told the patients that Mrs. Beamish was making some claim against Jon, and he was trying to protect Jon, so would they just please say so and so, about the woman shrieking that Jon had hurt her? They were reluctant, I see now very clearly, not because they thought they were hurting Jon, but because they have the ordinary citizen’s aversion to dealing with the law in any form.” He thought a moment. “Of course, that is what it was! And all the time I’ve been thinking something else. Everything, Amelia, is not always what exactly meets the eye.”
Once out in the street, he climbed into his trap and sat and thought long and hard. He had considered going to “the young ladies” who had made affidavits alleging that Jonathan had performed criminal operations on them but had discarded the idea. They had unseen but powerful friends, and of that he had no doubt. There were large and shadowy figures behind them, and they would report to these figures at once.
There is something worthwhile about living in a small city like Hambledon, he thought as he drove away. Almost everyone knew Miss Forster, whose ancestors had helped found this city. She and her family were held in the highest respect, and though they were in rather poor circumstances now, the word of a Forster would not be challenged. Her brother was minister of his father’s church and had a considerable reputation everywhere. Miss Forster’s word—and affidavit—would be accepted in any court of law, and even Campion understood that. Howard considered again. The Senator had claimed no acquaintance with the seamstress and milliner, nor had they claimed any knowledge of him but Howard’s lawyer’s intuition assured him, without the slightest proof, that there must be some connection. Still, he dared not approach them directly or indirectly, for they would run in terror to those who had demanded their perjury.
At the proper moment, however, they would be confronted. Howard had a plan of his own in mind, and it was broadening moment by moment.
Howard Best was well known to the police in Scranton, and the chief of police was one of his best friends, for they had known each other from childhood.
So Howard went to see William Simpson confidentially. “It’s just a little matter,” he said. “A small claim against a Mrs. Edna Beamish, who used to five in Scranton. I am doing it as a favor.” Friends though they were, Howard was enough of a lawyer not to be too forthright and honest.
William Simpson laughed. “Oh, Edna. A girl from across the tracks, as we say. Pretty little trollop. Prettiest little thing who ever picked up her skirts to show off her wares to the highest bidder—on the right side of town.”
Howard laughed, too, genially. “That sort, eh? And all the time I’ve heard that she was married to a rich man in Scranton, one Ernest Beamish.”
“Well, that’s true, too. Old fool, Ernest. Never married in his life, and when he saw Edna, he decided he’d found the girl of his dreams. She wasn’t cheap, Edna. No common whore. She had style, too, and nice sweet little manners. Almost a lady. She married him when she was eighteen and had been in business for at least three years before that.”
“Very enterprising,” said Howard, trying to keep the intense interest off his face. “Have a cigar. Twenty-five cents apiece. What this country needs—”
“Yes. I know. A good five-cent cigar. What’s this about a small claim against Edna? Old Ernest left her quite a lot of money when he died two years ago and—”
Howard sat up. “Two years ago?”
“That’s right.” The chief of police chuckled. “Perhaps Edna kept him too busy.” Now his sharp eye studied Howard thoughtfully. “Come on. Tell me the truth. Why do you want to know about Edna Beamish?”
Howard was annoyed at himself. But he smiled and waved his hand. “It is a small matter, Bill. She lived in Hambledon, and there’s a matter of a confection, some millinery, she forgot to pay for.”
The chief of police pursued up his mouth and gave Howard a skeptical look. “Now, that’s quite a story. Edna never lived in Hambledon in her life, so far as I know, and I keep up with the gossip in this town.”
“Why, that’s impossible, Bill. I have the bill of sale right in my office. Thirty-five dollars.”
William Simpson shook his head, and for some reason he began to laugh deeply to himself, and Howard watched eagerly. “Howard, someone’s pulling your leg. I repeat: Edna never lived in Hambledon. Old Ernest Beamish was well known to me. We played poker together. He never lived in Hambledon, either. They had a nice house in town, very stylish, and they gave fine parties, and I was there. After Ernest died—”
“Yes?”
But the chief continued to smoke and shake with silent laughter. Then he said. “That Edna,” in an admiring tone.
“What about her?”
“I thought,” said the chief, “that your sole concern for our local Jersey Lily was purely in behalf of a millinery claim, and Howard, I’m ashamed of you, a prominent lawyer like you making up a ridiculous little story like that. I thought better of you. Can’t you trust an old friend?”
Howard considered him long and steadily. “I want to know her connection with Senator Campion, one of our unfortunate Commonwealth’s two Senators.”
A closed look came over William Simpson’s face. He carefully deposited cigar ash in a tray. He said, “Why didn’t you say that in the first place, instead of trying to make me believe that you believed Edna had lived in Hambledon?”