The Tragedy of Z Read Free

words wiggled out; it was inane, and I bit my lip with mortification. I heard father give vent to a gusty gasp, and Governor Bruno looked positively stupefied. As for Mr. Lane, his old brows soared, his eyes grew keen, and he studied my face for a long moment before replying. Then he chuckled, rubbed his hands togtheer, and said: “My child, this is astonishing. Inspector, I shall never forgive you for having kept this young woman out of sight during all these years. What is your name?”
    â€œPatience,” I mumbled.
    â€œHa, the Puritan influence, Inspector! I daresay that was an inspiration of yours rather than of your wife’s.” He chuckled again, grasping my arm with surprising strength, and said: “Come along, you fossils. We can talk about ourselves later.… Astonishing, astonishing!” he kept chuckling. He led us to a lovely arbor, bustled about, sent various rosy little old men on errands, served us with his own hands, and all the while kept stealing glances at my face. By this time I was in the lowest pit of confusion, and I kept upbraiding myself bitterly for the fatuous egotism which had inspired my remark.
    â€œNow then,” the old gentleman said, when we had refreshed ourselves, “now then, Patience, let’s investigate your remarkable statement.” His voice lulled my ears; it was of extraordinary timbre, deep, mellow, rich as old Moselle. “So I’m contemplating the writing of my memoirs, am I? Indeed! And what else do those pretty eyes of yours see, my dear?”
    â€œOh, really,” I faltered, “I’m sorry for having said that.… I mean—it wasn’t … I don’t want to monopolize the conversation, Mr. Lane. You haven’t seen the Governor and father for so long.”
    â€œNonsense, my child. We old boys have learned, I’m sure, to cultivate Patience.” He chuckled again. “Another sign of senility. What else, Patience?”
    â€œWell,” I said, drawing a deep breath, “you’re learning to typewrite, Mr. Lane.”
    â€œEh!” He looked startled. Father was staring at me as if he had never seen me before.
    â€œAnd,” I continued meekly, “you are teaching yourself, Mr. Lane. You’re learning the touch system rather than the hit-or-miss system.”
    â€œGood heavens! This is retribution with a vengeance.” He turned, smiling, to father. “Inspector, you’ve produced a veritable giantess of intellect. But perhaps you’ve been telling tales about me to Patience?”
    â€œHell! I’m as surprised as you are. How the devil could I tell her? I didn’t know myself. Is it true?”
    Governor Bruno rubbed his jaw. “I think I could use a young woman like you in Albany, Miss Thumm——”
    â€œHere! No irrelevancies,” murmured Drury Lane. His eyes were exceedingly bright. “This is a challenge. Deduced, eh? Since Patience has done it, it’s obvious that the thing can be done. Let me see.… What has occurred, precisely, since we met? First I approached through the trees. Then I greeted you, Inspector, and you, Bruno. And then Patience and I looked at each other and—shook hands. Tchk! The startling deductions … Ha! The hands, of course!” He examined his own hands quickly, carefully; then he smiled and nodded. “My dear, this is perfectly amazing. Yes, yes! Naturally! Learning to type, eh? Inspector, what does an examination of my claws tell you?”
    He held his white-veined hands up before father’s nose, and father blinked. “Tell me? What the deuce can they tell me? They’re clean, that’s all!”
    We laughed. “Confirmation, Inspector, of my often repeated conviction that observation of minutiae is of vast importance to the detective. It appears that the fingernails of four fingers on each hand are broken, cracked. Whereas the thumbnails are unbroken, in fact manicured.