The Tragedy of Z (22 page)

And when the physician stepped back after the second examination, the elder said in a low voice, intoning the doom required by law: “Warden, I pronounce this man dead.”

The body sagged, relaxed, against the chair.

Nobody stirred a hand's-breath. The door to the combination mortuary and autopsy-room next door opened, and a white table was wheeled in.

Mechanically, then, Drury Lane consulted his watch. It was ten minutes past eleven.

And Scalzi was dead.

14. THE SECOND SECTION

Jeremy got up and began to walk around the room. Father Muir sat in a sort of stupor, quietly; he had heard nothing, I felt sure, for his eyes were fixed on an intangible far beyond the range of our vision.

Mr. Drury Lane blinked, and said slowly: “How do you know, Patience, that Dr. Fawcett has received another section of chest?”

So I recounted the story of my adventure that evening.

“How clearly did you see it on Dr. Fawcett's desk?”

“It was in my direct line of vision, not fifteen feet away.”

“Did it look the same as the piece we found on Senator Fawcett's desk?”

“No, I'm sure it didn't. It was open at both sides.”

“Ha! The middle section, then,” he muttered. “Did you see if there were letters on its face, my dear, comparable to the
HE
on Senator Fawcett's section?”

“I do seem to recall seeing lettering of some sort on the face, Mr. Lane, but I was too far away to make it out.”

“Too bad.” He mused, his old body quiet. Then he leaned forward and patted my shoulder. “A good night's work, my dear. I can't see it clearly as yet.… Suppose you let Mr. Clay drive you home now. You've had a wretched experience.…”

Our eyes met. Father Muir from his chair uttered a little groan, and his lips trembled. Jeremy was staring out the window.

“You think—” I began slowly.

He smiled faintly. “Always, my dear. Now good night, and don't worry.”

15. ESCAPE!!

The following day was Thursday, and it was a bright sapful day which promised to be very warm. Father togged himself out in a new linen suit that I had insisted on buying him in Leeds, and very smart he looked, too, although he grumbled about, said something to the effect that he was not a “lily”—whatever that meant—and for a full half-hour refused to budge from the Clay house for fear someone he knew might see him.

The little details of that day—perhaps the most eventful, except one, that we were destined to spend in Leeds—stand out with photographic clarity. I remember that I had purchased a heavenly orange tie for father, which anyone with a proper appreciation of color-values would know was just the correct combination with the linen suit; I had to adjust the knot myself, and all the while he muttered and mumbled and had a most unhappy time. One would have imagined he had committed a crime, or that the effective ensemble he was wearing was a prison uniform. Poor father! A hopeless conservative, and it gave me inordinate pleasure to make him look nice—a labor of love which, I fear, he did not wholly appreciate.

It was almost noon when we decided to take the walk. Or rather, when I decided.

“Let's stroll up the hill,” I suggested.

“In this blasted outfit?”

“Of course!”

“Not me. I won't go.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Don't be an old poke. It's a gorgeous day.”

“Not to me, it isn't,” growled father. “Besides, I—I guess I don't feel well. Rheumatiz in my left leg.”

“In this mountain air? Bosh! We'll call on Mr. Lane. And you'll be able to show off your nice new suit.”

So we strolled, and I plucked a handful of wildflowers on the road, and father lost his self-consciousness, and for a time he was almost gay.

We found the old gentleman buried in a book on the porch of Father Muir's, and—wonder of wonders!—he was dressed in a linen suit and sported an orange tie!

They stared at each other like two aged Beau Brummels, and then father looked sheepish and Mr. Lane chuckled.

“A veritable fashion-plate, Inspector. The Patience influence, I see. By thunder, you've needed a daughter, Thumm!”

“I was beginning to get over it,” muttered father. Then he brightened. “Well, at least I've got company.”

Father Muir came out of the house and greeted us warmly—he was still pale and subdued from the previous night's experience—and we all sat down. The helpful Mrs. Crossett appeared with a tray of iced drinks, in which alcohol was conspicuously absent. As the old men talked, I watched the cloud-speckled sky and tried to avoid looking at the tall gray walls of Algonquin Prison so near the house. It was hot summer here, but within those walls it would never be anything but the dreariest winter. I wondered what Aaron Dow was doing.

Time passed on quiet feet, and I sat and rocked myself in a Nirvana of selflessness, lost in contemplation of the beautiful sky. Gradually my thoughts worked around to the incidents of the previous night. That second section of chest—what did it portend? That it had meant something to Dr. Ira Fawcett had been hideously plain: the fierce expression on his face was the result of knowledge, not of fear of the unknown. And how had it got to him? And who had sent it? … I sat up straight, alarmed.
Had it been sent by Aaron Dow?

I sank back, deeply troubled. This put a different construction on the facts. The first section of chest had been sent by the convict—he had confessed as much—and by inference he himself had made it in the prison carpentry shop. Had he made a second one and by some devious underground prison channel sent it to
a second victim?
By this time I was frantic, and my heart pounded like a trip-hammer. But it was preposterous. Aaron Dow had not killed Senator Fawcett.… I became dizzy.

At a little past twelve-thirty our attention was called sharply to the prison gates. A moment before everything had been as usual—armed guards slowly pacing the top of the broad walls, the ugly sentry-boxes silent and seemingly lifeless until one saw the dully gleaming muzzles of guns protruding. And now there was a stir, an unmistakable bustle of unusual activity.

We all sat up, the three men stopped talking, and we watched.

The huge steel gates swung inward, and a blue-clad keeper appeared, armed with a pistol-holster and a rifle. Then he stepped backward, his broad shoulders to us, and shouted something we did not catch. A double-file of men appeared in the gateway. Prisoners.… They shuffled along in the dust of the road, each one carrying a pick or heavy shovel, heads held high, sniffing the soft air like eager dogs. They were dressed alike—heavy brogans on their feet, soft wrinkled gray trousers and coats, and coarse hickory shirts beneath. There were twenty men in the gang, and they were evidently bound for the other side of the hill, somewhere in the woods, to build or repair a road; at a roar from the keeper the leaders of the file executed a clumsy left turn which took the line gradually beyond our range. A second armed keeper marched at the rear, and the first stumped along to the right of the double-file, watchful and occasionally shouting an order. The twenty-two men disappeared.

We sat back, and Father Muir said dreamily: “This is Heaven to these men. It is hard work, back-breaking work, but as St. Jerome says: ‘Keep doing some kind of work, that the devil may always find you employed,' and then it means being outdoors, away from the walls. The men love to go on road-gang duty.” And he sighed.

Exactly one hour and ten minutes later it happened.

Mrs. Crossett had served a snacky little luncheon, and we were just relaxing on the porch once more when, as before, something on the walls caught and fixed our attention and all conversation ceased.

One of the guards pacing the wall had stopped, frozen, and was peering intently into the yard below. He seemed to be listening to something. We stiffened in our chairs.

When it came, we all started convulsively and shrank a little. It was rude, raw, pitiless—a long piercing, shrieking, whining whistle which raised fierce echoes from the surrounding hills and died away like the moan of a dying devil. It was followed by another, and another, and another, until I held my ears and felt like screaming.

With the first blast Father Muir gripped the arms of his chair, paler than his collar.

“Big Ben,” he whispered.

We listened, petrified, to that satanic symphony. Then Mr. Lane said sharply: “A fire?”

“Prison break,” growled father, moistening his lips. “Patty, get into the house——”

Father Muir was staring at the walls. “No,” he said. “No. An escape.… Merciful Father!”

We jumped from our chairs with one accord and dashed down into the garden to lean on the rose-strewn wall. The walls of Algonquin themselves seemed to have stiffened in response to the alarm-siren. The keepers standing there strained every muscle, looked wildly from side to side, their guns raised—quivering, undecided, but ready for any emergency. And then the steel gates swung open again, and a powerful automobile crammed with men in blue, all armed with rifles, roared into the road, careened to the left on two wheels, and shot out of sight. It was followed by another, and another, until I counted five cars full of men, all armed to the teeth, all intent on something before them. I thought that in the first one I had noticed Warden Magnus sitting beside the chauffeur with his face white and set.

Father Muir gasped: “Excuse me!” and, gathering the skirts of his cassock about his old legs, hurried up the road toward the gates, raising clouds of dust. We saw him scurry toward a group of armed keepers standing just within the gates, and stop to talk with them. They gesticulated toward the left, where below and to the side of the prison lay the dense woods which covered the shanks of the hill.

The priest returned with lagging steps, head hanging, a picture of despair.

“Well, Father?” I asked impatiently as he turned into the gate and stood beside us, fingers fumbling with the rusty fabric of his gown.

He did not raise his head. On his face I thought I detected bewilderment, and pain, and an outraged something which defied analysis. It was as if he had suddenly been robbed of faith, although it might have been a spiritual misery which had no precedent in his experience.

“One of the men on the road-gang,” he faltered, his fingers trembling, “made a break for it while they were working and—got away.”

Mr. Drury Lane looked intently at the hills. “And it was—?”

“I—” The little padre's voice quavered, and he raised his head. “It was Aaron Dow.”

I think we were all struck dumb. It was too great a shock for father and me, at least, to assimilate without time for reflection. Aaron Dow escaped! Of all eventualities, this was the least expected—by me, at any rate. I glanced at the old gentleman and wondered if he had foreseen this. But his sharp cameo face was composed, and he was still studying the far-flung hills with a nice preoccupation, like an artist lost in contemplation of an unusual sunset.

There was nothing to do but wait, and we waited at Father Muir's all afternoon. There was little talk and no laughter. It was as if the old men had recaptured the horrid mood of the night before, and indeed the shadow of death invaded the little porch so that I might even imagine myself in that sinister death-chamber watching Scalzi strain his life out against his leather bonds.

All afternoon there was ant-like activity in and about the prison, and we watched it in futile silence, our senses stunned by the shock. Several times the old priest hurried over to the prison for information, but each time he returned without news. Dow was still at large. The countryside was being scoured. All citizens of the neighborhood had been warned, and the siren cried out incessantly. Inside the prison, we were given to understand, at the very first alarm all inmates had been herded into the cell-blocks and locked in their cells, not to be released until the escaped man was captured.… And early in the afternoon we saw the road-gang return. The men were marching in a stiff lock-step under iron discipline, menaced by the guns of half a dozen guards; and there were only nineteen—I counted them dully—in the double-file. They all vanished quickly inside the yard.

Late in the afternoon the searching cars began to roll back. The foremost contained Warden Magnus, and as the men climbed wearily out just inside the gate, we could see him directing a keeper with an air of authority—the Principal Keeper, Father Muir murmured—in audible but indistinguishable barks. Then, with tired steps, the warden headed our way. He climbed the steps slowly, panting for breath; his stocky figure was expressive of great fatigue, and his face was grimy with dust and perspiration.

“Well!” he said, sighing with relief as he sank into an armchair. “That man's a problem. What do you think of your precious Dow now, Mr. Lane?”

The old gentleman said: “Even a mongrel will fight when he's cornered, Warden. It isn't pleasant to face life imprisonment for a crime you never committed.”

Father Muir whispered: “Nothing, Magnus?”

“Nothing. He's disappeared as if the earth swallowed him. I tell you—this was not a one-man job. He had accomplices. Otherwise we would have nabbed him hours ago.”

We sat in silence; there was nothing to say. Then, as a little group of keepers marched out of the prison gates toward us, the warden said swiftly: “I've taken the liberty, padre, of ordering a little investigation and setting it right here—on your porch. I don't care to upset prison morale by doing it inside the walls. It's nasty.… Do you mind?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“What's the matter, Magnus?” muttered father.

The warden looked grim. “Plenty, I suspect. In most cases an attempt to escape is an inside job—other prisoners help, and trusties are made to keep quiet. Such escapes are almost invariably failures. Escapes are scarce, anyhow; we've had only twenty-three attempts in nineteen years, and only four of the twenty-three were never captured. As a result a prisoner makes pretty sure he can get away before he tries. He's got too much to lose if he fails—loss of his privileges primarily, and that hurts. No, I've got a notion that in this case—” He stopped, and his jaw set hard. The group of keepers had reached Father Muir's steps and were standing at attention. Two of them, I noticed, were unarmed; and there was something about the way the rest of them surrounded these two that made me shiver.