Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 142: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

612 “* She’s — gone? Bartlett, tremulously. Silvers nodded. “ That fellow Carpenter has carried her off. Going to employ detectives, I guess— and keep her hidden somewhere so she can’t be arrested. Oh, they’ll probably fight the thing through to a finish.” Bartlett saw a new menace in all this. She must have told Carpenter that she had not taken a headache powder, and he had guessed that Bartlett must have some im- portant reason for wanting to throw sus- picion on her! Damn Napoleon and his lies! Damn the luck! It had certainly turned against him at last! If they began to suspect him—if they started to investi- gate, they would surely discover his con- nection with Da Costa—his motive for the murder. And there was his wound. It might have been better to have owned up at the beginning, pleading self-defense! His wound would have lent color to such a plea—and there was no witness to prove whether he or Da Costa had struck first. Of course he had followed Da Costa up io the little French drawing-room; but he might have said that Da Costa had sent for him to come. ' It was too late to think of all that now, though! No one would believe it now! He had kept silent too long. It was just his luck to do the wrong thing. He might have got away with it. But now his chances looked very slim. For one thing, he hadn’t much energy left to fight with. He was very weak. He was worn out. The dead man, he told himself grimly, was a hard fighter. Napoleon appeared, interrupting Bart- lett’s train of thought. He held a platter in his hands—a platter with a silver cover. ‘“ Shall I serve?” he asked, placing the platter on the table before Bartlett. And then, with a flourish, he raised the covér. With an agonized cry Bartlett sat staring. For on the platter lay the bloody knife with which Da Costa had been killed —the knife just as Napoleon had dragged it from the dead man’s throat. “Take it away!” babbled Bartlett, sud- denly breaking. ‘“‘ Hide it—for God’s sake! I killed him! J killed him! Ym licked!” Run away?” asked ‘through the interveni ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. And he fell forward on the table, shud- dering convulsively. Silvers sat staring, speechless, unable to grasp what had occurred; but Jack broke a screen of palms and helped Napoleon raise the old man. As they lifted him, the napkin covering the blood stain fell away, and he opened his eyes. ‘“He’s wounded!” cried Jack, startled. Bartlett tried twice to speak before any sound came forth. “Yes,” he managed to whisper, finally, ‘* this is what he did to me before I got him. But I got him!” His eyes lighted with sav- age joy. “And I’m mighty proud of it! He was a skunk if ever there was one. I really deserve a medal instead of what I'll probably get.” “T didn’t know you even knew him,” cried Silvers, dazed. ‘“‘T made him,” said Bartlett. ‘“ I picked him up out of the gutter and made him— and he didn’t play straight with me. Lis- ten—because I’m all in—you’d better write it down in case I pass out. I’ve lost an awful lot of blood, you see. / killed him because he didn’t play straight with me, and I’m glad I did it! It’s one of the finest things I could have done for society at large! Have you got that down?” he asked, looking at Jack, who had taken him at his word and was transcribing the con- fession. “Yes,” said Jack. “ I’d better put your name in it, though!” “Henry Bartlett,” said the gambler dis- tinctly. Jack read the following: I, Henry Bartlett, do hereby swear that I killed Guy da Costa because he did not play straight with me, and I feel that in doing so I have conferred a benefit upon society at large. “ Right,” said Bartlett, “and just add he was a skunk!” Jack added the line, and offered Bartlett his fountain pen. Marshaling all his remaining strength, Bartlett signed, in quite a steady, round hand. “Thank you,” said Jack, taking the pa- Gomichbooksrecom