Speaker 1: An Eye for an Eye by William A. Mc gerry.
An almost imperceptible zephyr from the elm shaded avenue headed
through the raised windows of Clayton's beautiful mansion, swaying the
silken curtains ever so slightly. A little cloud of pungent
powder smoke lazily rose, disintegrated and was carried away. Clayton,
in evening dress, stood stupidly over the prone bodies of Marsden,
his lifelong chum, and she who had been his wife,
The revolver given him by the dead man on their
first trip after big game was in his hand. It
was an automatic needing, but the slightest pressure to let
loose its messengers of death. A pool of blood from
the breast of the woman and stained the carpet a
darker hue. She lay as she had fallen, save her
right arm, which thrown up in protection, had limply relaxed
and settled to her side. Her heaving breast had grown
still and no sound, But the breathing of Clayton broke
the intense stillness. Marsden, his features distorted in the death
grin of fear, had not moved. His body lay crumpled
as though every bone were broken. A bell clang somewhere
in the house, but Clayton took no heed. It was
followed by a crash, and a squad of blue coats,
led by the precinct Captain, entered with drawn revolvers. The
automatic was taken from Clayton's unresisting hand, and he was manacled.
No questions were asked, they were unnecessary. Time passed unnoticed,
and Clayton sat mute and unseeing behind the narrow bars.
He slept and ate mechanically. The protestations of friendship and
offers of help, which had plenteously at first reached his cell,
passed without answer, and now he was left severely alone.
Only once did he speak, just before the jury went out.
The unwritten law was his defense, he said, but little
a word. Picture of his life as it had been
before his one time friend stepped in, a sketch of
his ideals, the feelings that came to him when he
saw his home had been destroyed. That was all. Then
again he sank into the chair, silent, morose. Presently, a
stir followed by a death like hush, masked the return
of the jury. A deep voice sounded unnecessarily loud in
the stifling stillness of the courtroom. Not guilty, it said,
as one in a dream. Clayton walked from the place
he submitted passively to congratulations dully without thought. He answered
business questions from his lawyer, whose face bore a look
of conscious pride. At the victory. A taxicab called by
a friend stopped at the curb to receive him. He
was sharply reminded that he had not paid the fare.
As he left the vehicle before the door of his
home home, the unspoken word jarred his nerves. Things were
sadly out of place. Why did this picture persist in
staring at him? Why this old Japanese chair, his last
birthday gift to her, always bar his way? All the
house seemed wrapped in an atmosphere of gloom and despair.
Voices called from corners behind chairs, and the suddenly lighted
electrics revealed no one. Petulantly, he invaded the upper regions
of the house. A drawer in his small bureau slid open,
creaking to his pull. A blue, burnished automatic mate to
that other, sparkled before his eyes. Unthinkingly, his fingers closed
over it. As in a dream. He wandered back to
that room he had left months ago. Manacled accused. He
gazed unseeing into the chilly blue barrel of the weapon
in his hand. His eyes straight around, then fell on
the dark stain on the rug. He forced himself to
look away. Then he found the stain again before his eyes.
It seemed to mock him, and once he thought he
heard a chuckle. His blood froze in his veins. As
it dissolved, took shape and showed her face. For many minutes,
he gazed into her eyes. They were sad and reproachful.
Perhaps after all he had been wrong, hasty. He could
see her as she looked that first day they met,
then as she looked on their wedding day, and he
had killed her, perhaps without cause. He forgot that the
jury of his peers had acquitted him, forgot everything except
that the fear of death to which he had sent
her was on him. Summoning all his will, he tore
his gaze away from the dark, ominous stain. Again again,
his eyes fastened on the blued muzzle of the revolver,
nervously toying with a safety catch, his fingers unloosed it.
The whirr of an automobile passing on the avenue grew
less distinguishable. Then it took strength and swelled into an
eerie moan of anguish. It sounded to him like an accusation. Again,
he called on his will, and unconsciously his muscles tightened,
answering the leaping surge of his heart. The double grip
of the automatic released a spring hidden in its perfect
steel heart. As quick as thought itself, the mechanism obeyed
its law. An empty shell flew out with a snap,
and there was a dull thud, then silence outside. A
blue coat idly swinging his club and ruminating on the
law which allowed a rich man to go free, suddenly
stiffened as the hound at bay, all sign of laziness
left him, and he bounded up the steps of the
mansion two at a time. A whistle sounded for the
second time. The massive front door was forced open for
the second time. A squad of police entered the gorgeously
furnished parlor of Clayton's home. An odor of powder smoke
met them, strong and pungent. A rapidly enlarging pool of
blood was darkening the outlines of the already dark, ugly
stain on the rug. Open mouthed, the blue coat stood
tense and silent. A rattling of curtain rings boomed, almost
deafening in their ears. Silently, the captain, he who had
led that other squad, turned and gestured, and the men
filed out, leaving one on guard again. All was silent,
save for the whispering breeze, fanning the smoke, and rustling
the silken curtains. The end of an Eye for an
Eye by William A. Mc gerry