Джеймс Кейн - Mignon

“Daughter! Please!” said Mr. Landry.

“Are you trying to shut me up?”

But he did shut her up, by putting his hand to her mouth and pushing her back in her chair, the way he’d pushed me. Colonel Rogers walked around, his face purple, trying to get control. At last he whispered: “Bribery charge dismissed.”

“My, I’m surprised,” I said.

“That’ll be all!” he yelled at me.

It was five minutes before he calmed down, shuffled his papers some more, and started over. Then he asked for the trial draft of the informer’s note, the one pasted together from scraps, and I got it out, laying it down in front of him. He studied it, then announced: “There can be no doubt at all, in any fair person’s mind, that the last informer’s note and this trial draft are by one and the same hand.” He was pretty solemn about it, and his tone was cold, so it suddenly dawned on me that with his brother officer whitewashed, he wouldn’t be so lenient as he had been. Or in other words, Jenkins-and-Burke was one thing, Burke alone a different kettle of fish. I caught her eye, and motioned she should keep quiet. She nodded and stared at him. He went on: “The next question is: Whose hand?”

“His!” said Burke, pointing at me.

“Quiet!.. Mr. Cresap, you pasted up these scraps?”

“I did, yes sir.”

“Where did you get them, please?”

“From Burke’s room at the City Hotel.”

Then, as he questioned me, I told of seeing the scraps by accident, of signing on as William Crandall, of having the skeleton key made, of searching the room that night, and of returning to the St. Charles, where I pasted up my exhibit. At first I spilled it freely, being just as annoyed as she was at Mr. Landry’s strange behavior in shushing things up for Burke, and feeling exactly as she did that the point had already been reached where partnership had to end. But little by little, I smelled I was heading for trouble, and that the colonel probably knew I’d had help that night, and what kind. That’s where I began to fence, to protect Marie; after what I’d done to her, I felt I couldn’t involve her. Maybe, as a gambling-house proprietor, she didn’t have much reputation, but I had made the point that to me she was a lady. Yet the questions kept boring in, and at last the colonel said: “Mr. Cresap, here’s what we’re driving at: Burke’s man, Pierre Legrand, who sits here, insists he never left that room, that you couldn’t have made a search, as he was there all the time to stop you. Now please search your memory well, as to whether you can prove he left the room that night. Have you a witness to it?”

“... I have to say I have not.”

“The hotel clerk has informed us that William Crandall, that day, took a room for one Eloise Brisson, and that a veiled woman checked in. Is this true?”

“I prefer not to say.”

“You have to say, Mr. Cresap.”

“I was seeking evidence as counsel, and as such my actions were privileged. I don’t have to say.”

“You do, to sustain your charge.”

“Then consider my charge withdrawn.”

“Mr. Cresap, charges aren’t debts, to be canceled at one man’s caprice — they allege crimes, in this case fabrication of false information, and once made they have to be gone into. Now your charge, if true, which we incline to believe, can be substantiated, we think, only by this woman, who was seen by the night maid whispering to Legrand at his door, and who may, as your decoy, have lured him out of that room. It’s essential we question her — but neither police, provost guard, nor city directory has any record of an Eloise Brisson. Was this a false name, Mr. Cresap?”

“On that I have nothing to say.”

“You don’t deny it, then?”

“I make no statement of any kind.”

“What’s her true name, Mr. Cresap?”

“I wouldn’t say if I knew.”

“Can you bring her incog, for interrogation?”

“Whether I can or not, I won’t.”

Mignon, by now, had become her stone nymph in a garden, or at least had turned to marble, and I dared not meet her eye as she stared unwinking at me. But who got into it now was Mr. Landry, as he interrupted to say: “Colonel, could I put in a word? In behalf of getting this straightened out?” And as the colonel didn’t stop him, he went on: “No one who knows Mr. Cresap could doubt his word, and the same goes for whoever knows Frank Burke. But , if those scraps were found in that basket, it doesn’t say Frank put ’em there! Think, sir, how many people had passkeys on that floor, and could have planted this evidence, as a way of throwing the blame on Frank for the injury done to me! Think how many people wish me ill — not to go any further with it, the ones that owe me money, right here in New Orleans! I strongly urge on you, that all this could be true that’s been spoken of here today, and at the same time prove nothing at all!”

“You’re defending this man here?”

“Frank Burke is my friend.”

“And your godpappy, no?”

“He’s my trusted partner.”

Burke, who had stared in astonishment, got the point at last and put out his hand, to squeeze Mr. Landry’s arm. Then she got in it: “And another thing, Colonel Rogers,” she said, very sweetly: “Frank leads a decent life — he wouldn’t bring some woman in, a honey off the streets, to help with some sneaky search. How could he? Keeping this man in his rooms all the time?”

“God bless you, lass.”

Burke put out his hand to her, and she took it, kissing it, then patting him on the cheek. The colonel watched, then turned again to me, asking: “You still refuse to name this woman?”

“I’ve already told you I won’t.”

“You spoke of a whitewash just now?”

“... I thought I detected one.”

“Of one of our officers here?”

“Of that officer there, Major Jenkins.”

“But when it comes to someone else, like the godpappy of your client, you don’t mind a whitewash, do you? You’re perfectly willing to withhold the information we need to proceed against him?”

“That’s not the idea, Colonel.”

“ What is the idea, then? ”

That was Mignon, who jumped up, ran over, leaned close, and screamed: “ Who was this woman? WHO WAS SHE?”

“Daughter, that’ll be all.”

Mr. Landry came over, took her by the arm, and led her back to her chair. The colonel, still disregarding them, said to me: “Whitewash is whitewash.”

“Could depend on what’s aimed at.”

“I go by what’s covered up.”

He then lit into me so bitterly I knew that he knew his case had blown up. But Dan interrupted, asking permission to speak. When the colonel nodded, he said to me very coldly: “Bill, not one word that’s been said here — by you, Mr. Landry, or Mrs. Fournet — is true; but we make allowance, as I told you before, for the Red River cotton, which makes people do queer things. But if you think, by suppressing information now, you’re helping Burke, Mr. Landry, and Mrs. Fournet cash their chips, you were never so wrong in your life. Because, if you cooperate, if the three of you do, we could equalize, somehow. For example, those articles we found when we searched Burke’s place last night, that partnership agreement, we might void for some reason — such as fraud figuring in. That would restore Mr. Landry his titles, and might lead to a handsome profit. Now that we know the shoes were a trumped-up thing, we’d be disposed to treat him kindly. But if the three of you keep on associating yourselves with Burke, it breaks the bank for you. It so happens I’ll be in charge of the trading passes next month when the invasion starts to roll, and, I promise you, this oily, slippery, crooked Irishman will not be on board the boat. That’ll extinguish all titles because, don’t forget: The godpappy has to be there, in person, to claim his seizure receipt. Without it he can’t litigate. Do you hear what I’m telling you, Bill?”