Chapter XIX: An Explanation

Somers groaned, rubbed his aching head, and drank another cup of black coffee. He was collecting himself momently; save for a very pale face he was once more the coolly casual, brusquely friendly chap we all knew.

“Not later than nine, is it?” he inquired. “Right! Let’s go downstairs. Call Dorothy; I’ve got lots to tell you all, and I’d better make my peace with her at once.” He made a wry face. “She doesn’t exactly admire me right now, I’ll bet!”

So we all repaired to the big sitting room, and presently Dorothy appeared, urged in by her brother, and still looking hurt and disgusted. Somers rose.

“Let me apologize, Mrs. Parker,” he began. “No--I’m perfectly sober now!” He smiled his warming, whimsical smile as she made a little movement of distaste. “Just let me explain. I had reason to think that this man Satterfield knew more about the murder than he’d told. You knew that? Well, the only way to find out was to make friends with him. If I could get his confidence, he might let something out inadvertently. So I had to chum up with him and his crowd; I had to drink with them, though I assure you it wasn’t an unmixed pleasure, by any means. Lordy, that raw corn whisky!” He rubbed his head again ruefully. “I thought I could drink with that bunch and keep my head; but I was mistaken.”

“Oh, I suppose it was all right,” replied Dorothy, only half mollified. “But it was just awful, doctor, to think of you off somewhere, drinking with the very man who was going to hang my--my husband, two days ago!”

“That’s just why I did it! Satterfield hadn’t any love for Doctor Gaskell, and it seemed odd to me that he should be so bitter against Lewis--unless he thought he’d be safer himself if somebody else was hung for that shooting. But wait till I tell you.

“In the first place, Satterfield was out drinking and playing poker that night, and somebody phoned him about four in the morning, and he went out. I told you all that, and that there was a shotgun beside Tulliver’s door? Yes. Well, Satterfield took that gun with him! That’s one thing I learned by getting drunk, Mrs. Parker.” I noticed that he had dropped the familiar “Dorothy;” perhaps Somers resented the girl’s attitude just the least bit in the world.

“Well,” he went on, “Charlie Bates went out back to the pump for a drink, and he noticed that the shotgun was gone. And, when they all left, after Satterfield got back, the gun stood in its place again. And that’s that!”

“Look here, Somers,” I cut in. “Satterfield went out at four, you say? Are you sure that was after Gaskell got the sick call?”

Somers nodded. “I asked Olsen about that. He called Gaskell up about ten minutes before four. He thought it was queer he didn’t come, and finally he got dressed and came after him about six. That’s how he happened to be there so soon after Gaskell’s body was found.”

“Well,” I continued triumphantly, “if Gaskell was sent for at ten minutes of four, he must have started across lots toward Olsen’s place pretty soon after four o’clock. And he never got to Olsen’s, so he must have been shot on the way over. That would fix the killing at four, or very soon after; and my nephew couldn’t have done it, because he didn’t get there until five. That’s easy to prove, because I saw him, and both Wakefield and I heard the shot. Doesn’t that clear Lewis?”

Somers nodded impatiently. “If we could prove it--yes. Don’t you suppose I’d thought of that, long ago? But we can’t. Gaskell was alone in the house; his wife was away, and the cook didn’t get there until seven. He was sent for at three-fifty, all right, but who’s going to prove he didn’t take an hour to get ready? Nobody saw him except the murderer, and we can hardly expect _him_ to come forward and testify. Now let me get back to it; where was I?

“Oh, yes! Satterfield’s daughter, Minnie, is your night telephone operator. She’s a nice girl, too; I made her acquaintance to-day. And it was Minnie who called him up at four in the morning; he let that out to me, talking about the affair. I’m pretty good, you know; I have to admit it. I pumped a tremendous lot out of Satterfield and his gang, and I don’t believe one of them suspected what I was after. Satterfield is pretty bitter against Gaskell, even now that he’s dead. He more than hinted that the doctor knew more than was good for him; and he said one rather odd thing about that, too. ‘If Doc Parker hadn’t killed Gaskell,’ he said, ‘that is, if he did kill him--why, somebody else would have done it in a day or two. Gaskell was buttin’ into what wasn’t none of his put-in.’ What do you think of that?”

We all stirred excitedly; Dorothy glowed at him. “Why, that’s just wonderful! It was as good as saying he did it himself. Now you can clear my--my h-husband”--faltering a bit on the unfamiliar word--“as easy as anything!”

That was like Dorothy. She was mercurial; by turns exalted, and again in despair; inclined to jump at conclusions, and, by reason of that failing, unjust at times. I felt she had been unfair to Somers to-night. But it was an impulsive, generous injustice, for which she hastened to make amends.

“Will you forgive me, F-Floyd?” she asked prettily. “I know it was horrid of me, but I’m so upset!”

He gave her that sudden, flashing smile. “Why, of course, Dorothy! I don’t blame you one bit. But it’s not so easy as all that, either. We’re gradually collecting information, which may help the defense somewhat, but we can’t prove anything from what Satterfield admits when he’s drunk, you know. This only gives us a start for further investigation along those lines.”

He reflected a moment, his long, dark face grave and mature; looking at him I could scarcely realize that this man, one short hour ago, had staggered up to Fort House, uproariously drunk, and had put a foot through his silk hat on the steps.

“There’s something back of it all,” he went on presently. “I’m beginning to feel that this murder is more complicated than we had thought. Satterfield knows something, I’m sure, whether he did the actual shooting or not. But, if he did, I don’t think it was merely revenge for being sent up for thirty days. A month in jail isn’t any terrible disgrace to a chap like that; he’s been in jail before, I’m told. No, there is something else, something bigger, behind it all; what, I don’t know. It’s irritating because it’s so vague. For example, Satterfield was quite apologetic about that mob. We laughed a lot to-day about his lynching that didn’t come off; my back’s sore from being pounded. Well, he hadn’t anything against Doctor Parker, he told me--not a thing. Rather grateful to him than otherwise, because Gaskell was due to die anyhow. But he had to stir up the mob, just the same. ‘Couldn’t git outa that,’ he told me. ‘Things bein’ as they were, w’y, I just hadda start somepin that a way. So I passed round some white liquor I had. Have ’nother drink, doc! Lots more where that come f’om. I give th’ boys s’m’ corn liquor and talked it up, and I got ’em all goin’ till they was jus’ wild and r’arin’ to lynch ’im. I just hadda do it, doc!’ Now that was a queer way to put it, I thought. Why did he have to start a lynching bee? And who put him up to it? For, from the way he talked, I’m quite sure it wasn’t his own plan. I’m as sure as I can be that he stirred up that mob because somebody else, somebody in the background, somebody we know nothing about--yet, ordered him to do it. Or, at least, because he thought the lynching would please this mysterious somebody.”

Somers sighed and rubbed his head, which ached furiously, no doubt. “It’s all so confoundedly vague,” he went on, scowling around at our blank faces. “Can’t you think of something, any of you? Miss Christie, what’s your idea? Hello! What’s become of her?”

We all turned, but the couch was vacant. Some time during our talk, while we were all absorbed in Somers’ narrative, perhaps, the nurse had slipped unobtrusively out.

“She’s gone to bed, I suppose,” said Dorothy. “You know, she’s an awful sleepyhead.”

Somers nodded. “Just wait till she begins to get the effect of those tablets,” he declared confidently. “She won’t be then. She was mighty good to help me out, a little while ago, and I was beastly drunk, too.” He rose and stretched his long, emaciated arms above his head, groaning. “I’ll go to bed, too. I’m about done up. But I’m going on with this thing; I’m going to find out what’s behind it all, what mysterious person planned Gaskell’s death. For I’m sure his death was planned and ordered. Satterfield thinks so, anyhow. And I’ll have it out of him yet; I’ll find out all he knows, even if I have to get drunk on his moonshine seven nights in the week!”

He paused, fingering his chin, and looked half humorously, half apprehensively, at the new Mrs. C. Lewis Parker. “I forgot,” he drawled. “After all I’m here, officially, only as Parker’s best man. Now the wedding’s over I ought to be going. Besides, it’ll be unpleasant for you, to say the least, if I have to come back half-seas-over every night. I’ll go to the hotel, or perhaps Uncle George will let me bach in with him for a while?”

But Dorothy would have none of that. “You’re being mean,” she declared, “and you needn’t be horrid, just because I was. You’ll stay right here at Fort House, both of you! We’ve got lots of room, and I don’t care what Aunt Mary says, either! I’m a married woman now; and, besides, Peter’s here; and I guess I can have company if I want to! And I’ll be so l-lonesome until Lewis comes back, and s-scared, too, with that nasty Poltergeist, and thinking of Doctor Gaskell killed right under my windows, almost, and--and everything!” She dabbed at her eyes, and patted her brother’s hand, as he murmured something. “Oh, you’re good, Peter, dear, and it’s a comfort to have you, but Floyd would be just miserable over there, with nobody but an old colored woman to look after him. You’ll stay here, won’t you, Floyd, and you, Uncle George?”

We promised, of course; who would not?