The Blind Man's Eyes by William MacHarg and Edwin Balmer
CHAPTER XIV
IT GROWS PLAINER
Basil Santoine's bedroom, like the study below it, was so nearlysound-proof that anything going on in the room could not be heard inthe hall outside it, even close to the double doors. Eaton, as theyapproached these doors, listened vainly, trying to determine whetherany one was in the room with Santoine; then he quickened his step tobring him beside Harriet.
"One moment, please, Miss Santoine," he urged.
She stopped. "What is it you want?"
"Your father has received some answer to the inquiries he has beenhaving made about me?"
"I don't know, Mr. Eaton."
"Is he alone?"
"Yes."
Eaton thought a minute. "That is all I wanted to know, then," he said.
Harriet opened the outer door and knocked on the inner one. Eatonheard Santoine's voice at once calling them to come in, and as Harrietopened the second door, he followed her into the room. The blind manturned his sightless eyes toward them, and, plainlyaware--somehow--that it was Eaton and Harriet who had come in, and thatno one else was with them, he motioned Harriet to close the door andset a chair for Eaton beside the bed. Eaton, understanding thisgesture, took the chair from her and set it as Santoine's motion haddirected; then he waited for her to seat herself in one of the otherchairs.
"Am I to remain, Father?" she asked.
"Yes," Santoine commanded.
Eaton waited while she went to a chair at the foot of the bed andseated herself--her clasped hands resting on the footboard and her chinupon her hands--in a position to watch both Eaton and her father whilethey talked; then Eaton sat down.
"Good morning, Eaton," the blind man greeted him.
"Good morning, Mr. Santoine," Eaton answered; he understood by now thatSantoine never began a conversation until the one he was going toaddress himself to had spoken, and that Santoine was able to tell, bythe sound of the voice, almost as much of what was going on in the mindof one he talked with as a man with eyes is able to tell by studyingthe face. He continued to wait quietly, therefore, glancing up once toHarriet Santoine, whose eyes for an instant met his; then both regardedagain the face of the blind man on the bed.
Santoine was lying quietly upon his back, his head raised on thepillows, his arms above the bed-covers, his finger-tips touching withthe fingers spread.
"You recall, of course, Eaton, our conversation on the train," Santoinesaid evenly.
"Yes."
"And so you remember that I gave you at that time four possiblereasons--as the only possible ones--why you had taken the train I wason. I said you must have taken it to attack me, or to protect me fromattack; to learn something from me, or to inform me of something; and Ieliminated as incompatible with the facts, the second of these--I saidyou could not have taken it to protect me."
"Yes."
"Very well; the reason I have sent for you now is that, havingeliminated to-day still another of those possibilities,--leaving onlytwo,--I want to call your attention in a certain order to some of thedetails of what happened on the train."
"You say that to-day you have eliminated another of the possibilities?"Eaton asked uneasily.
"To-day, yes; of course. You had rather a close call this morning, didyou not?"
"Rather, I was careless."
"You were careless?" Santoine smiled derisively. "Perhaps you were--inone sense. In another, however, you have been very careful, Eaton.You have been careful to act as though the attempt to run you downcould not have been a deliberate attack; you were careful to call it anaccident; you were careful not to recognize any of the three men in themotor."
"I had no chance to recognize any of them, Mr. Santoine," Eaton repliedeasily. "I did not see the car coming; I was thrown from my feet; whenI got up, it was too far away for me to recognize any one."
"Perhaps so; but were you surprised when my daughter recognized one ofthem as having been on the train with us?"
Eaton hesitated, but answered almost immediately:
"Your question doesn't exactly fit the case. I thought Miss Santoinehad made a mistake."
"But you were not surprised; no. What would have been a surprise toyou, Eaton, would have been--if you had had a chance to observe themen--to have found that none of them--none of them had been on thetrain!"
Eaton started and felt that he had colored. How much did Santoineknow? Had the blind man received, as Eaton feared, some answer to hisinquiries which had revealed, or nearly revealed, Eaton's identity? Orwas it merely that the attack made on Eaton that morning had givenSantoine new light on the events that had happened on the train andparticularly--Eaton guessed--on the cipher telegram which Santoineclaimed to have translated? Whatever the case might be, Eaton knewthat he must conceal from Harriet the effect the blind man's wordsproduced on him. Santoine, of course, could not see these effects; andhe had kept his daughter in the room to watch for just such things.Eaton glanced at her; she was watching him and, quite evidently, hadseen his discomposure, but she made no comment. As he regainedpossession of himself, her gaze went back intently to her father.Eaton looked from her back to the blind man, and saw that Santoine waswaiting for him to speak.
"You assume that, Mr. Santoine," he asserted, "because--" He checkedhimself and altered his sentence. "Will you tell me why you assumethat?"
"That that would have surprised you? Yes; that is what I called you inhere to tell you."
As Santoine waited a moment before going on, Eaton watched himanxiously. The blind man turned himself on his pillows so as to faceEaton more directly; his sightless, motionless eyes told nothing ofwhat was going on in his mind.
"Just ten days ago," Santoine said evenly and dispassionately, "I wasfound unconscious in my berth--Section Three of the rearmostsleeper--on the transcontinental train, which I had taken with mydaughter and Avery at Seattle. I had been attacked,--assailed duringmy sleep some time in that first night that I spent on the train,--andmy condition was serious enough so that for three days afterward I wasnot allowed to receive any of the particulars of what had happened tome. When I did finally learn them, I naturally attempted to makecertain deductions as to who it was that had attempted to murder me,and why; and ever since, I have continued to occupy myself with thosequestions. I am going to tell you a few of my deductions. You neednot interrupt me unless you discover me to be in error, and then inerror only in fact or observation which, obviously, had to be reportedto me. If you fancy I am at fault in my conclusions, wait until youdiscover your error."
Santoine waited an instant; Eaton thought it was to allow him to speakif he wanted to, but Eaton merely waited.
"The first thing I learned," the blind man went on, "was the similarityof the attack on me to the more successful attack on Warden, twelvedays previous, which had caused his death. The method of the twoattacks was the same; the conditions surrounding them were verysimilar. Warden was attacked in his motor, in a public street; hismurderer took a desperate chance of being detected by the chauffeur orby some one on the street, both when he made the attack and afterwardwhen he escaped unobserved, as it happened, from the automobile. Theattack upon me was made in the same way, perhaps even with the sameinstrument; my assailant took equally desperate chances. The attack onme was made on a public conveyance where the likelihood of the murdererbeing seen was even greater, for the train was stopped, and underconditions which made his escape almost impossible. The desperatenature of the two attacks, and their almost identical method, made itpractically certain that they originated at the same source and werecarried out--probably--by the same hand and for the same purpose.
"Mrs. Warden's statement to me of her interview with her husband ahalf-hour before his murder, made it certain that the object of theattack on him was to 'remove' him. It seemed almost inevitable,therefore, that the attack on me must have been for the same purpose.There have been a number of times in my life, Eaton, when I have knownthat it would be to the advantage of some one if I were 'r
"I found that a young man--yourself--had acted so suspiciously bothbefore and after the attack on me that both Avery and the conductor incharge of the train had become convinced that he was my assailant, andhad segregated him from the rest of the passengers. Not only this,but--and this seemed quite conclusive to them--you admitted that youwere the one who had called upon Warden the evening of his murder.Warden's statement to his wife that you were some one he was about tobefriend--which had been regarded as exculpating you from share in hismurder--ceased to be so conclusive now that you had been present at asecond precisely similar attack; and it certainly was no proof that youhad not attacked me. It seemed likely, too, that you were the onlyperson on the train aside from my daughter and Avery who knew who Iwas; for I had had reason to believe from the time when I first heardyou speak when you boarded the train, that you were some one with whomI had, previously, very briefly come in contact; and I had asked mydaughter to find out who you were, and she had tried to do so, butwithout success."
Eaton wet his lips.
"Also," the blind man continued, "there was a telegram which definitelyshowed that there was some connection, unknown to me, between you andme, as well as a second--or rather a previous--suspicious telegram incipher, which we were able to translate."
Eaton leaned forward, impelled to speak; but as Santoine clearlydetected this impulse and waited to hear what he was going to say,Eaton reconsidered and kept silent.
"You were going to say something about that telegram in cipher?"Santoine asked.
"No," Eaton denied.
"I think you were; and I think that a few minutes ago when I said youwere not surprised by the attempt made to-day to run you down, you werealso going to speak of it; for that attempt makes clear the meaning ofthe telegram. Its meaning was not clear to me before, you understand.It said only that you were known and followed. It did not say why youwere followed. I could not be certain of that; there were severalpossible reasons why you might be followed--even that the 'one' who'was following' might be some one secretly interested in preventing youfrom an attack on me. Now, however, I know that the reason you fearedthe man who was following was because you expected him to attack you.Knowing that, Eaton--knowing that, I want to call your attention to thepeculiarity of our mutual positions on the train. You had asked forand were occupying Section Three in the third sleeper, in order--Iassume and, I believe, correctly--to avoid being put in the same carwith me. In the night, the second sleeper--the car next in front ofyours--was cut off from the train and left behind. That made me occupyin relation to the forward part of the train exactly the same positionas you had occupied before the car ahead of you had been cut out. Iwas in Section Three in the third sleeper from the front."
Eaton stared at Santoine, fascinated; what had been only vague, halffelt, half formed with himself, was becoming definite, tangible, underthe blind man's reasoning. He was aware that Harriet Santoine waslooking alternately from him to her father, herself startled by therevelation thus passionlessly recited. What her father was saying wasnew to her; he had not taken his daughter into his confidence to thisextent.
Eaton's hands closed instinctively, in his emotion. "What do you mean?"
"You understand already," Santoine asserted. "The attack made on mewas meant for you. Some one stealing through the cars from the frontto the rear of the train and carrying in his mind the location SectionThree in the third car, struck through the curtains by mistake at meinstead of you. Who was that, Eaton?"
Eaton sat unanswering, staring.
"You did not realize before, that the man on the train meant to murderyou?" Santoine demanded.
"No," said Eaton.
"I see you understand it now; and that it was the same man--or some oneaccompanying the man--who tried to run you down this morning. Who isthat man?"
"I don't know," Eaton answered.
"You mean you prefer to shield him?"
"Shield him?"
"That is what you are doing, is it not? For, even if you don't knowthe man directly, you know in whose cause and under whose direction hemurdered Warden--and why and for whom he is attempting to murder you."
Eaton remained silent.
In his intensity, Santoine had lifted himself from his pillows. "Whois that man?" he challenged. "And what is that connection between youand me which, when the attack found and disabled me instead of you,told him that--in spite of his mistake--his result had beenaccomplished? told him that, if I was dying, a repetition of the attackagainst you was unnecessary?"
Eaton knew that he had grown very pale; Harriet must be aware of theeffect Santoine's words had on him, but he did not dare look at her nowto see how much she was comprehending. All his attention was needed todefend himself against Santoine.
"I don't understand." He fought to compose himself.
"It is perfectly plain," Santoine said patiently. "It was believed atfirst that I had been fatally hurt; it was even reported at one time--Iunderstand--that I was dead; only intimate friends have been informedof my actual condition. Yesterday, for the first time, the newspapersannounced the certainty of my recovery; and to-day an attack is made onyou."
"There has been no opportunity for an attack on me before, if this wasan attack. On the train I was locked up under charge of the conductor."
"You have been off the train nearly a week."
"But I have been kept here in your house."
"You have been allowed to walk about the grounds."
"But I've been watched all the time; no one could have attacked mewithout being seen by your guards."
"They did not hesitate to attack you in sight of my daughter."
"But--"
"You are merely challenging my deductions! Will you reply to myquestions?--tell me the connection between us?--who you are?"
"No."
"Come here!"
"What?" said Eaton.
"Come here--close to me, beside the bed."
Eaton hesitated, and then obeyed.
"Bend over!"
Eaton stooped, and the blind man's hands seized him. Instantly Eatonwithdrew.
"Wait!" Santoine warned. "If you do not stay, I shall call help." Onehand went to the bell beside his bed.
Harriet had risen; she met Eaton's gaze warningly and nodded to him tocomply. He bent again over the bed. He felt the blind man's sensitivefingers searching his features, his head, his throat. Eaton gazed atSantoine's face while the fingers were examining him; he could see thatSantoine was merely finding confirmation of an impression alreadygained from what had been told him about Eaton. Santoine showednothing more than this confirmation; certainly he did not recognizeEaton. More than this, Eaton could not tell.
"Now your hands," Santoine ordered.
Eaton extended one hand and then the other; the blind man felt overthem from wrists to the tips of the fingers; then he let himself sinkback against the pillows, absorbed in thought.
Eaton straightened and looked to Harriet where she was standing at thefoot of the bed; she, however, was intently watching her father and didnot look Eaton's way.
"You may go," Santoine said at last.
"Go?" Eaton asked.
"You may leave the room. Blatchford will meet you downstairs."
Santoine reached for the house telephone beside his bed--receiver andtransmitter on one light band--and gave directions to have Blatchfordawait Eaton in the hall below.
Eaton stood an instant longer, studying Santoine and trying fruitlesslyto make out what was passing in the blind man's mind. He wasdistinctly frightened by the revelation he just had had of Santoine'sclear, implacable reasoning regarding him; for none of the blind man'sdeductions about him had been wrong--all had been the exact, thoughincomplete, truth. It was clear to him that Santoine was close--muchcloser even than Santoine himself yet appreciated--to knowin
As his mind reviewed, almost instantaneously, these considerations, heglanced again at Harriet; her eyes, this time, met his, but she lookedaway immediately. He could not tell what effect Santoine's revelationshad had on her, except that she seemed to be in complete accord withher father. As he went toward the door, she made no move to accompanyhim. He went out without speaking and closed the inner and the outerdoors behind him; then he went down to Blatchford.
For several minutes after Eaton had left the room, Santoine thought insilence. Harriet stayed motionless, watching him; the extent to whichhe had been shaken and disturbed by the series of events which hadstarted with Warden's murder, came home strongly to her now that shesaw him alone and now that his talk with Eaton had shown partly whatwas passing in his mind.
"Where are you, Harriet?" he asked at last.
She knew it was not necessary to answer him, but merely to move so thathe could tell her position; she moved slightly, and his sightless eyesshifted at once to where she stood.
"How did he act?" Santoine asked.
She reviewed swiftly the conversation, supplementing his blindapperceptions of Eaton's manner with what she herself had seen.
"What have been your impressions of Eaton's previous social condition,Daughter?" he asked.
She hesitated; she knew that her father would not permit the vaguegenerality that Eaton was "a gentleman." "Exactly what do you mean,Father?"
"I don't mean, certainly, to ask whether he knows which fork to use attable or enough to keep his napkin on his knee; but you have talkedwith him, been with him--both on the train and here: have you been ableto determine what sort of people he has been accustomed to mix with?Have his friends been business men? Professional men? Society people?"
The deep and unconcealed note of trouble in her father's voice startledher, in her familiarity with every tone and every expression. Sheanswered his question: "I don't know, Father."
"I want you to find out."
"In what way?"
"You must find a way. I shall tell Avery to help." He thought forseveral moments, while she stood waiting. "We must have that motor andthe men in it traced, of course. Harriet, there are certainmatters--correspondence--which Avery has been looking after for me; doyou know what correspondence I mean?"
"Yes, Father."
"I would rather not have Avery bothered with it just now; I want him togive his whole attention to this present inquiry. You yourself willassume charge of the correspondence of which I speak, Daughter."
"Yes, Father. Do you want anything else now?"
"Not of you; send Avery to me."
She moved toward the door which led to the circular stair. Her father,she knew, seldom spoke all that was in his mind to any one, evenherself; she was accustomed, therefore, to looking for meaningsunderneath the directions which he gave her, and his presentorder--that she should take charge of a part of their work whichordinarily had been looked after by Avery--startled and surprised herby its implication that her father might not trust Avery fully. Butnow, as she halted and looked back at him from the door and saw histroubled face and his fingers nervously pressing together, sherecognized that it was not any definite distrust of Avery that hadmoved him, but only his deeper trust in herself. Blind and obliged torely on others always in respect of sight, and now still more obligedto rely upon them because he was confined helpless to his bed, Santoinehad felt ever since the attack on him some unknown menace over himselfand his affairs, some hidden agency threatening him and, through him,the men who trusted him. So, with instinctive caution, she saw now, hehad been withdrawing more and more his reliance upon those less closelybound to him--even Avery--and depending more and more on the one hefelt he could implicitly trust--herself. As realization of this cameto her, she was stirred deeply by the impulse to rush back to him andthrow herself down beside him and assure him of her love and fealty;but seeing him again deep in thought, she controlled herself and wentout.