"Just tell me--How did it come about, this--affair?"
That question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to
actuality.
"When did it happen?"
"Last night."
In Larry's face there was--there had always been--something childishly
truthful. He would never stand a chance in court! And Keith said:
"How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. Drink
this coffee; it'll clear your head."
Laurence took the little blue cup and drained it.
"Yes," he said. "It's like this, Keith. There's a girl I've known for
some months now--"
Women! And Keith said between his teeth: "Well?"
"Her father was a Pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and left
her all alone. A man called Walenn, a mongrel American, living in the
same house, married her, or pretended to--she's very pretty, Keith--he
left her with a baby six months old, and another coming. That one died,
and she did nearly. Then she starved till another fellow took her on.
She lived with him two years; then Walenn turned up again, and made her
go back to him. The brute used to beat her black and blue, all for
nothing. Then he left her again. When I met her she'd lost her elder
child, too, and was taking anybody who came along."
He suddenly looked up into Keith's face.
"But I've never met a sweeter woman, nor a truer, that I swear. Woman!
She's only twenty now! When I went to her last night, that brute--that
Walenn--had found her out again; and when he came for me, swaggering and
bullying--Look!"--he touched a dark mark on his forehead--"I took his
throat in my hands, and when I let go--"
"Yes?"
"Dead. I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him
behind."
Again he made that gesture-wringing his hands.
In a hard voice Keith said:
"What did you do then?"
"We sat by it a long time. Then I carried it on my back down the street,
round a corner to an archway."
"How far?"
"About fifty yards."
"Was anyone--did anyone see?"
"No."
"What time?"
"Three."
"And then?"
"Went back to her."
"Why--in Heaven's name?"
"She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith."
"Where is this place?"
"Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho."
"And the archway?"
"Corner of Glove Lane."
"Good God! Why--I saw it in the paper!"
And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that
paragraph: "The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in
Glove Lane, Soho. Fro
|