Complete Story. The Alibi.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXII, Issue XIII, 26 March 1904, Page 57

Complete Story. The Alibi.

By

HERBERT SHAW.

As Mr. Janies Cartwright, of “The Cedars,” Sutton, sat alone over his coffee. there came a shadow outside. He looked up. The big windows from the lawn were open, for it was hot summer, and a man was coolly stepping through them into the room. “What the deuee ?” cried Cartwright, his finger on the knob of the bell.

“Not at all,” said the other. “Do you know’ it will make rather a difference to you if you touch that bell? Would you mind telling me your name?” “Cartwright.” A strong man himself, he was amazed at this impudence. “And yours?” “Bourne!” screamed Cartwright.

“Exactly, Cartwright. And you are — I know you were in Australia—Michael, without any surname, but with the pretty addition. Hell Michael. But there’s no occasion to shout it out so. Old chums deserted come together at the last.”

Cartwright's mouth twitched visibly in the shaven face. “What have you come here for?” he said at length. “My dear Cartwright Michael (pretty name that), what a question! Friendship, of course, and other things. You

left us rather in the lurch, old man, that time years ago. And w r e were a pretty three—Hadley, Bourne, and Hell Michael. We did some good work. And then the last affair, the robbery of the Bank at Pilot’s Mound. That's the one I’ve come to talk to you about. You had all the money, and old Hadley and I couldn’t move a step without it, and when trouble came, you were missing, you cur!”

“It was not my fault,” said Cartwright feebly. Bourne got up and shut the windows tight, and came back, glancing round the room.

“Whose, then?” he said sharply. 'Whose? If it was not your fault, give us a name. This house, the garden, the pictures —how did they come? You don’t answer. I’ll tell you why I’ve come. Day after day old Hadley and I have slaved—onee we broke out together, and they flogged us together, by heaven!—but at the finish it was to be you who should pay. Day after day we waited till we were free, and, now we’ve paid the penalty, we’re as clean as though wc were children. You’re not! You've not had your punishment. We're going to run the company again—not for work, but pleasure—and you’re the man to pay. If not—well, they haven’t got you in the

directory here as Hell Michael, have they?” Cartwright’s lips now were tight as a drum. “Where’s Hadley?” he snapped out.

Bourne looked him in the eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, he- said. “Melbourne, waiting till I give him the word.”

“You don’t get a single halfpenny from me!” shouted Cartwright, suddenly ferocious. I’ve w’orked here square. I’ve got a name and position, by heaven, and I’m not going to have a couple of blacks like you hanging round.” “Keep easy, please,” said Bourne, for Cartwright was out of breath. “You might have put it simpler. It’s fighting, then ?”

“May I open the door for you?” said Cartwright. “Or preferably the window. as you came that wav?”

“Good night, old son.” said Bourne amiably, as he stepped out. “But I don’t intend to lose sight of you, you know.”

Mr. James Cartwright sat alone over his cold coffee, and thinking hard, faced the black past that had reared up as if by magic. But he did not intend to be daunted by it. He did not. intend, above all. that the past should hurt him now, after his years of easiness and peace. Most emphatically, no. He would shut up the house and send away the servants for a time. That would throw Bourne off the scent. Bourne would not act till Hadley came over. He himself would go to London and hide there. And, if necessary, there was only Bourne to deal with. It was a good thing Hadley had not come over vet.

But Bourne had lied (though he did not quite know why. except for the angry meaning in Cartwright's question)

when he had said fhat Hadley was still in Australia. Hadley was staying at a small hotel in Above Bar. Southampton. n. < Cartwright shut up the house and went to London, taking rooms in a street which led from the Embankment to the Strand. The top half of the street was all newspaper offices, the lower half law offices and rooms. He was very pleased because he had shaken off Bourne. On the third day of his occupancy of the rooms he was disturbed to see Bourne's face at the window of a room in the house opposite a room on a higher level, so that Bourne could sec right into his room. And Bourne, fulflling his threat of kepi’ig an eye on him, was grinning amiab'y at him. as on the last occasion of their meeting. Though amiable, it was not a pretty grin. Cartwright had henvr curtains brought in and put to that window. That night, on his own side of the dark curtains, ho sr t alone over very strong black coffee. When he had drunk it he stayed for a long time with his elbows upon the table and his chin in his hands. 1 don't think he would have troubled about anything from first to last if he had not been engaged to a girl. But now he had sot out for fighting, and it was not “Hell Michael's” way to draw back. This was plain and certain to him —he must get rid of Bourne before Hadley, the other enemy, came over. Then he could marry her and take her away quickly somewhere, and they would be safe as houses. A day or so saw a queer advertisement in half a dozen London papers: "Secretary wanted for special work. Write,

•ending photograph and stating height to ——. Only clean-shaven men need apply. not earlier than seven p.m. Photographs will be returned."

Bourne, from his vantage serosa the road, wondered at the load of letters that tumbled into the house where his enemy lodged. Cartwright returned all the photographs but one. to the owner of which he sent a note asking him to call. In the interval lietween his landlady telling him someone had called ami the ent ranee of the young man into the room Cartwright donned a great black beard. “?«'hat’s you name’’ said Cartwright. “Richard Herrick.” “Ager ■-•> “Thirty-six.” “Excuse me a minute, I want to have a look at you.” and, with this. Cartwright took a reading lamp from the table and held it high, so that the light came full to the caller’s face. Herrick’s eyes weakened for a moment in the glare, but then were steady. He had a very strong, young face. ‘•You'll do.” said Cartwright, replacing the lamp. “Subject to a few little conditions, of course. Do you mind staying indoors altogether for a few days’” “I don’t mind what 1 do,” said Herrick. “I’m hard up.” “Ah!” Cartwright showed interest. “I’ve been like that. What have you been doing’” “69th Yeomanry,” said Herrick. “Nothing since.” “Well, look here.” said Cartwright, “this job’s between you and me. of course, but there’s fifty pounds at the beginning of it. Is that all right?” “Beautiful,” said Herrick, with a ■mile. v . “I’ll give you my instructions. You're not to go near that window looking out on to the street. You’d better stop in the other room altogether for to-morrow. There’s a lot of books you can classify a bit, and there’s a pile of newspapers from which I want, you to scissor cuttings on any of a list of subjects on the table there. Understand?" “Exactly!” said Herrick. “They’ll send your meals up. Your clothes - I’m sorry—are a bit shabby, aren’t thev?”

“I’m afraid they arc.’.’ said Herrick, rueful Iv. You see •”

“I’ve got a decent suit in the cupboard over there. I’ve hardily worn it. Don’t think me a cad if I ask you to take them, but we’re much of a height, and all that, we two.”

“Certainly, i’ll wear ’em,” said Herrick.

“Put your old ones on the top shelf when you change. And to-morrow night at eight o’clock ring for cotfee. They make decent coffee here. You’ll like it.”

“It’s all above me,” replied llerriek calmly, “but I don’t .mind doing it. If you’ll excuse me, you seem all right. And if you’re not all right. I’ll pay you next time I see you. That’s all.”

Cartwright reached for his hand. “You’re my sort,” said he, “and I wish I was as young as you. I swear it’s all right as rain for you, though I may come back in a hurry and want you to do something else—and quick—but that

you’ll know later. If I'm not back tomorrow, you do the some again the next day. There’s an affdeess on that envelope to which I want you to write jf anything happens, and inside the envelope is your-money. Put the press-cut-tings on those little stab files, according to the subjects. Good-bye.” •• ■ <■

Cartwright shut tire door on Richard Herrick, ex-yeoman, who was puzzled. As he went down the dark stairs he to-morrow? 1 don’t feel up to much, pulled away his black beard and stuffed it into the little bag. A good deal depended now; but he met n-b one. He shouted down the bottom stairs to where the light streamed into the brick passage-

“I’m letting my friend out myself. Will you bring my meals to my room and I’m going straight to bed. Thanks very much.” He walked noisily along the passage, opened the door, said “Good night, then, old chap,” aloud, and passed out into the street, still carrying his bag. He stood carelessly for a moment on ■the doorstep. He waited till up above him on the opposite side he saw the dim white patch of Bourne’s face against the window, and then it was gone. Cartwright walked briskly up the street. At the top he did no more than half turii his head- It was enough to enable him to see, far behind him, the creeping shadow of Bourne, intent upon his watching still. 111. Herrick laboured at his newspaper slipping, pleased with the fifty pounds in his pocket, but impatient at this monotonous sort of work. The servant brought up his lunch, knocked, and left it on a tray outside the door. Herriek ate leisurely. Afterwards, still cutting and clipping, he pondered the reasons of many things. This acting arrangement was stupid. Why couldn’t he go and have a look out of that window into the street? He tried to remember a fairy tale like this, but could only think of Bluebeard, which was not altogether similar. Cartwright had his reason for this as for everything. Bourne might have occasion to leave off following him, and slip back to his rooms for something. It would not do to risk even the faint chance of Bourne’s seeing ” a second Cartwright at the window of the house opposite. An hour after lunch, Herrick could hear indistinctly the voices of the “early editions” in the Strand. He could not distinguish them clearly. Presently a boy came running down the street- “Shocking murder in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Special!” “I should like a paper,” said Herrick, “but I can’t break my word.”

The boy's feet stopped, and Herrick heard the door shut, and then someone coming up the stairs. A damp paper came under the door. “He has one- every day. then,” said Herrick, and picked it up. The police were already (he read) on the scent, for addresses had been found in the pockets of the dead man-

Herriek resumed his paragraph cutting.

A thundering. knock at the street door pulled him from his chair, and he stood upright, , scissors dangling on a finger. He heard the landlady's high, shaking voice. Then there was the heavy tramp of a small army up the creaking stairs. , . He-longed io walk over to the window and look down into the street, but he stood still. . , .. ». .

The door was flung open. In the rear of the inspector in the doorway Richard Herrick saw a couple of policemen, and pictured a long procession of them behind, stretching down the stairs and along the passage. “James Cartwright,” began the inspector- ” ’ ’

“Wrong address.” said Herrick. “Try again.”

“I’ve got a cab waiting.” The inspector ignored the interruption. “I arrest you for the murder of William Bourne, early this morning in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“May I go to the window now?” said Herrick absently, considering himself free of his bargain. He stepped across and looked out. The two constables were now at his elbow.

His mind would not take all this in at once; he could only see a little, dimly—a very little. If it came to the finish, tire man with the black beard would have got a eheap bargain for his fifty pounds. He turned away. “I’m ready,” said he.

Suddenly outside there was the sound of a swift-racing eab, and Herrick returned to the window. The driver sawed at the reins, the man in the eab dashed out through the open door of the house, and up the stairs. The next minute lie was in the room and staring at Herrick. ‘"What’s this?” cried the inspector. ‘‘You’ve got the. wrong man, Inspector Ford, though I don’t blame you. I’ll explain later. My name’s Hadley, and a cousin of yours had me in Australia for the Pilot’s Mound affair.” ‘‘Easy on,” said the inspector. “What do you want me to do? Where do you come in?” “Bourne was a ehum of mine. We were working together.” He swung round upon Herrick. “What was your man’s name?” “Cartwright.” “Did he give . you any address to which you were to write?” Corder-street, Stamfbrd-street, Blackfriars.” “That’s the place, inspector!” cried Hadley. “You may catch him there. He would have been as right as rain, but he didn’t know I was in England. Come along there quickly, and we’ll have him!” The inspector stood irresolute. ‘T tell you. man!” shouted Hadley, “it’s the thing to do. This man's nobody. It’s Cartwright you want, Hell Michael, of Australia. Besides, you’re running no risks. You can take this man with von.”

A minute afterwards two cabs were racing along to Blackfriars.

Corder Street is a peculiarly nasty little'street As they turned the corner Hadley, craned out of the cab window. A black-bearded man, carrying a bag, stood on the steps of a house near them. When he saw the two cabs he turned

nd passed swiftly into the house. “We’ve got him,” said H»dley. “Numb<r fifteen, and that's, it.” -

r The stranger had banged the door, nd they were kept waiting a little time. They poured in without a word of explanation, the two policemen still solicitous of Herrick. But when they were crammed in the narrow stairs a shot rang through the house. The sound echoed through the stuffy passage, and buffeted between the shaking walls. For a little they stood together, powerless to go on. Hadley recovered first, and his hand was on the door off the landing. He was the first to enter. Hell Michael, alias James Cartwright, of The Cedars. Sutton, lay dead on the floor, having missed escape by some three minutes or less. “But I don’t understand,” said Richard Herriek, in a bewildered way, and the inspector’s face, too, was blank. Hadley knelt down beside the dead man. With a quick movement of his wrist and fingers he snatched away the ■black beard, and they stared into a face that was a twin to the face of Richard Herrick.

“I see now,” said the inspector, softly. “Yes,” said Hadley, “it would have come off splendidly, too, only he thought I was in Australia still, instead of here. Y’ou were the alibi, Mr Herriek, and it’s lucky for you I was here.”—From the “Pictorial Magazine.”