Joe Garson had shouted his confession without a second ofreflection. But the result must have been the same had he takenyears of thought. Between him and her as the victim of the law,there could be no hesitation for choice. Indeed, just now, hehad no heed to his own fate. The prime necessity was to saveher, Mary, from the toils of the law that were closing aroundher. For himself, in the days to come, there would be a ghastlydread, but there would never be regret over the cost of savingher. Perhaps, some other he might have let suffer in hisstead--not her! Even, had he been innocent, and she guilty of thecrime, he would still have taken the burden of it on his ownshoulders. He had saved her from the waters--he would save heruntil the end, as far as the power in him might lie. It was thusthat, with the primitive directness of his reverential love forthe girl, he counted no sacrifice too great in her behalf. JoeGarson was not a good man, at the world esteems goodness. On thecontrary, he was distinctly an evil one, a menace to the societyon which he preyed constantly. But his good qualities, if few,were of the strongest fiber, rooted in the deeps of him. Heloathed treachery. His one guiltiness in this respect had been,curiously enough, toward Mary herself, in the scheme of theburglary, which she had forbidden. But, in the last analysis,here his deceit had been designed to bring affluence to her. Itwas his abhorrence of treachery among pals that had driven him tothe murder of the stool-pigeon in a fit of ungovernable passion.
He might have stayed his hand then, but for the gusty rage thatswept him on to the crime. None the less, had he spared the man,his hatred of the betrayer would have been the same.... And theother virtue of Joe Garson was the complement of this--his ownloyalty, a loyalty that made him forget self utterly where heloved. The one woman who had ever filled his heart was Mary, andfor her his life were not too much to give.
The suddenness of it all held Mary voiceless for long seconds.
She was frozen with horror of the event.
When, at last, words came, they were a frantic prayer of protest.
"No, Joe! No! Don't talk--don't talk!"Burke, immensely gratified, went nimbly to his chair, and thencesurveyed the agitated group with grisly pleasure.
"Joe has talked," he said, significantly.
Mary, shaken as she was by the fact of Garson's confession,nevertheless retained her presence of mind sufficiently to resistwith all her strength.
"He did it to protect me," she stated, earnestly.
The Inspector disdained such futile argument. As the doormanappeared in answer to the buzzer, he directed that thestenographer be summoned at once.
"We'll have the confession in due form," he remarked, gazingpleasedly on the three before him.
"He's not going to confess," Mary insisted, with spirit.
But Burke was not in the least impressed. He disregarded hercompletely, and spoke mechanically to Garson the formal warningrequired by the law.
"You are hereby cautioned that anything you say may be usedagainst you." Then, as the stenographer entered, he went on withlively interest. "Now, Joe!"Yet once again, Mary protested, a little wildly.
"Don't speak, Joe! Don't say a word till we can get a lawyer foryou!"The man met her pleading eyes steadily, and shook his head inrefusal.
"It's no use, my girl," Burke broke in, harshly. "I told you I'dget you. I'm going to try you and Garson, and the whole gang formurder--yes, every one of you.... And you, Gilder," he continued,lowering on the young man who had defied him so obstinately,"you'll go to the House of Detention as a material witness." Heturned his gaze to Garson again, and spoke authoritatively: "Comeon now, Joe!"Garson went a step toward the desk, and spoke decisively.
"If I come through, you'll let her go--and him?" he added as anafterthought, with a nod toward Dick Gilder.
"Oh, Joe, don't!" Mary cried, bitterly. "We'll spend everydollar we can raise to save you!""Now, it's no use," the Inspector complained. "You're onlywasting time. He's said that he did it. That's all there is toit. Now that we're sure he's our man, he hasn't got a chance inthe world.""Well, how about it?" Garson demanded, savagely. "Do they goclear, if I come through?""We'll get the best lawyers in the country," Mary persisted,desperately. "We'll save you, Joe--we'll save you!"Garson regarded the distraught girl with wistful eyes. But therewas no trace of yielding in his voice as he replied, though hespoke very sorrowfully.
"No, you can't help me," he said, simply. "My time has come,Mary.... And I can save you a lot of trouble.""He's right there," Burke ejaculated. "We've got him cold. So,what's the use of dragging you two into it?""Then, they go clear?" Garson exclaimed, eagerly. "They ain'teven to be called as witnesses?"Burke nodded assent.
"You're on!" he agreed.
"Then, here goes!" Garson cried; and he looked expectantly towardthe stenographer.
The strain of it all was sapping the will of the girl, who sawthe man she so greatly esteemed for his service to her and hisdevotion about to condemn himself to death. She grewhalf-hysterical. Her words came confusedly:
"No, Joe! No, no, no!"Again, Garson shook his head in absolute refusal of her plea.
"There's no other way out," he declared, wearily. "I'm goingthrough with it." He straightened a little, and again looked atthe stenographer. His voice came quietly, without anytremulousnesss.
"My name is Joe Garson.""Alias?" Burke suggested.
"Alias nothing!" came the sharp retort. "Garson's my monaker. Ishot English Eddie, because he was a skunk, and a stool-pigeon,and he got just what was coming to him." Vituperation beyond themere words beat in his voice now.
Burke twisted uneasily in his chair.
"Now, now!" he objected, severely. "We can't take a confessionlike that."Garson shook his head--spoke with fiercer hatred. "because he wasa skunk, and a stool-pigeon," he repeated. "Have you got it?"And then, as the stenographer nodded assent, he went on, lessviolently: "I croaked him just as he was going to call the bullswith a police-whistle. I used a gun with smokeless powder. Ithad a Maxim silencer on it, so that it didn't make any noise."Garson paused, and the set despair of his features lightened alittle. Into his voice came a tone of exultation indescribablyghastly. It was born of the eternal egotism of the criminal,fattening vanity in gloating over his ingenuity for evil.
Garson, despite his two great virtues, had the vices of hisclass. Now, he stared at Burke with a quizzical grin crookinghis lips.
"Say," he exclaimed, "I'll bet it's the first time a guy was evercroaked with one of them things! Ain't it?"The Inspector nodded affirmation. There was sincere admirationin his expression, for he was ready at all times to respect thepersonal abilities of the criminals against whom he wagedrelentless war.
"That's right, Joe!" he said, with perceptible enthusiasm.
"Some class to that, eh?" Garson demanded, still with thatgruesome air of boasting. "I got the gun, and the Maxim-silencerthing, off a fence in Boston," he explained. "Say, that thingcost me sixty dollars, and it's worth every cent of the money....
Why, they'll remember me as the first to spring one of themthings, won't they?""They sure will, Joe!" the Inspector conceded.
"Nobody knew I had it," Garson continued, dropping his braggartmanner abruptly.
At the words, Mary started, and her lips moved as if she wereabout to speak.
Garson, intent on her always, though he seemed to look only atBurke, observed the effect on her, and repeated his wordsswiftly, with a warning emphasis that gave the girl pause.
"Nobody knew I had it--nobody in the world!" he declared. "Andnobody had anything to do with the killing but me."Burke put a question that was troubling him much, concerning themotive that lay behind the shooting of Griggs.
"Was there any bad feeling between you and Eddie Griggs?"Garson's reply was explicit.
"Never till that very minute. Then, I learned the truth aboutwhat he'd framed up with you." The speaker's voice reverted toits former fierceness in recollection of the treachery of onewhom he had trusted.
"He was a stool-pigeon, and I hated his guts! That's all," heconcluded, with brutal candor.
The Inspector moved restlessly in his chair. He had onlydetestation for the slain man, yet there was something morbidlydistasteful in the thought that he himself had contrived thesituation which had resulted in the murder of his confederate.
It was only by an effort that he shook off the vague feeling ofguilt.
"Nothing else to say?" he inquired.
Garson reflected for a few seconds, then made a gesture ofnegation.
"Nothing else," he declared. "I croaked him, and I'm glad I doneit. He was a skunk. That's all, and it's enough. And it's alltrue, so help me God!"The Inspector nodded dismissal to the stenographer, with an airof relief.
"That's all, Williams," he said, heavily. "He'll sign it as soonas you've transcribed the notes."Then, as the stenographer left the room, Burke turned his gaze onthe woman, who stood there in a posture of complete dejection,her white, anguished face downcast. There was triumph in theInspector's voice as he addressed her, for his professional pridewas full-fed by this victory over his foes. But there was, too,an undertone of a feeling softer than pride, more generous,............