The Third Man

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When Webster G. Burgess asked ten of his close friends to dine with him at the University Club on a January night, they assumed that the president of the White River National Bank had gotten into another scrape that he wanted to tell them about. Despite their constant warnings that if he didn’t stop hiding crooks in his house and playing tricks on the police, he would end up in jail, Burgess kept finding amusement in dabbling with underworld types. In a city of roughly three hundred thousand people, a banker is expected to attend church on Sundays and otherwise behave like a decent, law-abiding citizen, but the president of the White River National didn’t see it that way. As a board member of the Released Prisoners’ Aid Society, he always had the excuse that his heart was moved by the misfortunes of those who walked on the dark side of the street, and that his philanthropy covered all his sins.

When his friends gathered at the club and found Governor Eastman among the dinner guests, they resented the presence of the dignitary, fearing it might restrain Burgess, who, despite his jaunty manner, wasn’t completely lacking in discretion. But the governor was a good fellow, as they all knew, and a storyteller of wide repute. Moreover, he took his job seriously, and being practical men, they appreciated that. It was said that no governor since Civil War times had spent so many hours at his desk or had shown such zeal and ability in gathering firsthand information about all departments of the state government. Eastman, as the country knows, was an independent character, a trait that had first shown itself when he was a prosecuting attorney and had earned him the governor’s seat.

“I suppose,” remarked Kemp as they sat down, “that these tablets are scattered around so we can take notes on the clever things that will be said tonight. It’s a good idea—gives me a chance to steal some of your stories, governor.”

A scratch pad with a pencil attached had been placed at each plate, and the diners spent several minutes teasing Burgess about the purpose of this unusual table decoration.

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“I guess,” said Goring, “that Web is going to ask us to write limericks for a prize, and the governor is here to judge the contest. Indoor winter sports don’t appeal to me; I pass.”

“I’m going to write notes to the House Committee on mine,” said Fanning. “The food at this club isn’t what it used to be, and it’s time someone complained.”

“As I’ve often told you,” remarked Burgess, smiling at them from the head of the table, “you fellows have no imagination. You’d never guess what those tablets are for, and maybe I’ll never tell you.”

“Nothing is as innocent as a piece of white paper,” said the governor, eyeing his tablet. “We’d better be careful not to jot down anything that might come back to haunt us. For all we know, it’s a scheme to get our signatures so Burgess can stick us with notes without regard for valuation laws. It’s about time for another Bohemian oats swindle, and our friend Burgess might expect to work us for the price of dinner.”

“Web’s bound to go to jail someday,” remarked Ramsay, the surgeon, “and he’d better do it while you’re in office, governor. You might not know that he’s hand in glove with every criminal in the country. He quit poker so he could devote all his time to playing with crooks.”

“The warden of the penitentiary has warned me about him,” replied the governor easily. “Burgess has a man at the gate to meet convicts as they come out, and all the really bad ones are sent down here for Burgess to put up at this club.”

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“I only did that once,” Burgess protested. “And that was only because my mother-in-law was visiting, and I was afraid she wouldn’t tolerate a burglar as a fellow guest. My wife’s gotten used to them. But the joke of putting that fellow up here at the club isn’t on me, but on Ramsay and Colton. They had lunch with him one day and thanked me afterward for introducing them to such an interesting man. I told them he was a manufacturer from St. Louis, and they swallowed it whole. His name was Pettit, but he has a string of aliases as long as this table, and there’s not a rogues’ gallery in the country that doesn’t have his picture. You remember, Colton, he talked a lot about his travels, which he could do honestly, as he’d cracked safes all the way from Boston to Seattle.”

Ramsay and Colton protested that this couldn’t be true; the man they’d lunched with was a shoe manufacturer and had talked about his business as only an expert could.

The governor and Burgess exchanged glances and both laughed.

“He knew the shoe business well enough,” said Burgess, “for he learned it in the penitentiary and was so efficient they made him foreman of the shop!”

“I suppose,” said Kemp, “that you’ve got another crook coming to fill that empty chair. You’d better tell us about him so we don’t make any social blunders.”

At the governor’s right, there was an empty place, and Burgess remarked casually that they were one man short, but that the guest would arrive later.

“I’ve asked Tate, a banker from Lorinsburg, to join us, and he’ll be along after a while. Does any of you know Tate? One of our scouts recently persuaded him to transfer his account to us, and since this is his first time in town since the change, I thought it only decent to show him some attention. We’re both directors in a company trying to develop a tile factory in his town, so you needn’t worry that I’m going to pull a fast one on you. Tate is at a meeting tonight from which I’m regrettably absent! He promised to be here before we got to the coffee.”

As dinner progressed, the governor was encouraged to tell stories, and he good-naturedly shared some amusing incidents from his official duties.

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“But it’s not all fun,” he said gravely after keeping them laughing for half an hour. “In a state this large, many unpleasant things happen, and people come to me every day with heartbreaking stories. There’s nothing that causes me more anxiety than pardon appeals; if the pardoning power were taken from me, I’d be a happier man. The Board of Pardons screens the cases, but even so, there’s enough to keep me uncomfortable. It’s not a pleasant feeling to think that when you go to bed at night, someone might be suffering unjustly, and it’s up to you to find out. When a woman comes in with children and cries about her husband in prison, insisting he’s innocent, it doesn’t cheer you up—not by a long shot. Wives, mothers, and sisters: the wives shed the most tears, the sisters make the best arguments, but the mothers cause the most sleepless nights.”

“If it were up to me,” commented Burgess, “I’d turn them all out!”

“You would,” chorused the table, “and after emptying the penitentiaries, you’d burn them down!”

“Of course, there are bound to be cases of flagrant injustice,” suggested Kemp. “The feelings of a man locked up for a crime he didn’t commit must be horrible. We hear of such cases occasionally, and it always shakes my faith in the law.”

“The law does its best,” replied the governor, sounding a bit defensive, “but, as you say, mistakes do happen. The old saying that murder will out is no good; we can all remember cases where the truth was never known. Mistakes happen constantly, and it’s the fear of not rectifying them that’s making a nervous wreck of me. I have in my pocket a blank pardon that I meant to sign before I left my office, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The Pardon Board has recommended it, not on grounds of injustice—more out of sympathy, I’m afraid—and we have to be careful about sympathy in these matters. And here again, there’s a wife to consider. She’s been at my office almost every day for a year, and she’s gone to my wife repeatedly to gain her support. It’s largely through Mrs. Eastman’s insistence that I’ve spent many weeks studying this case. It’s a murder: what appeared to be a heartless, cold-blooded killing.

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Some of you may recall it—the Avery case, seven years ago in Salem County.”

Half the men had never heard of it; the others remembered it only vaguely.

“It was an interesting case,” remarked Burgess, wanting to draw the governor out. “George Avery was a man of importance down there and well respected in the community. He owned a quarry about eleven miles from Torrenceville and kept a bungalow on the quarry land where he used to entertain friends with quail hunting and, perhaps, an occasional poker party. He killed a man named Reynolds, who was his guest. As I recall, there seemed to be no great mystery about it; Avery’s defense was a mere denial and a parade of character witnesses.”

“For all anyone ever knew, it was a straightforward case, as Burgess says,” the governor began. “Avery and Reynolds were business acquaintances, and Avery had invited Reynolds down to discuss merging their quarry interests. Reynolds was found dead a short distance from the bungalow by some of the quarry laborers. He had been beaten on the head with a club in the most brutal fashion. His overcoat was torn off and the buttons ripped from his waistcoat, suggesting a fierce struggle before his attacker subdued him and beat the life out of him. The motive was clearly not robbery, as Reynolds had a substantial sum of money on him that was left untouched. When the men who found the body went to rouse Avery, he collapsed when told that Reynolds was dead. In fact, he lay in a stupor for a week, and they couldn’t get any sense out of him. Tracks? There were none; it was a cold December night, and the ground was frozen.

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“Reynolds had planned to catch a midnight train for Chicago, and Avery had wired for special orders to stop at the quarry station to save Reynolds the drive into Torrenceville. One might suppose Avery would accompany his visitor to the station, especially since it wasn’t a regular stop for night trains and the path across the fields was a bit rough. I’ve personally been over the entire area. There are many puzzling aspects to the case, one being the lack of motive. The state claimed business jealousy and backed it up to a degree, and the fact that Avery had taken the initiative in proposing the merger and might have pressured Reynolds to agree is worth considering.”

The governor fell silent, seemingly lost in thought. With his right hand, he idly scribbled on the tablet by his plate. The others, settling back in their chairs hoping to hear more about the murder, were disappointed when he stopped. Burgess’s usual calm, assured demeanor slipped.

He seemed unusually restless, and they saw him glance surreptitiously at his watch.

“Please, governor, won’t you continue the story?” pleaded Colton. “You know that anything said at one of Web’s parties never leaves this room.”

“That,” laughed the governor, “is probably unfortunate, as most of his stories ought to go to the grand jury. But if I can speak in the private ear of you gentlemen, I’ll continue a bit more. I have to decide this case in the next hour or two, and thinking aloud may help me reach a conclusion.”

“You needn’t be afraid of us,” said Burgess encouragingly. “We’ve been meeting here—about the same group—once a month for five years, and no one has ever leaked a thing.”

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“All right, then we’ll go a bit further. Avery’s stubborn silence contributed to his speedy conviction. A college graduate, high-strung, nervous, hardworking, and tremendously ambitious; successful, reasonably prosperous, happy in his marriage, and with every reason to live an honest life—that’s George Avery as I see him when this calamity hit. There was one lapse, one mistake in his past, but it didn’t enter into the case, and I won’t mention it now. From the moment of his arrest, a week after the murder and only after the local authorities had exhausted every other lead, his conduct was that of a man resigned to his fate. I gather from the records that he stayed at the bungalow under a doctor’s care, utterly dazed, it seemed, by what he’d done, until a warrant was issued and he was jailed. He’s been a prisoner ever since, and his silence has remained unbroken.

His wife swears he never said a word about the case, even to her, except to declare his innocence. I’ve seen him twice at the penitentiary but couldn’t get anything out of him. I’ve tried every psychological tactic to surprise him into an admission that might justify a pardon, but I learned nothing beyond what the state’s case showed. They use him as a bookkeeper, and he’s been a model prisoner. The long confinement has seriously affected his health—that’s the main point of his wife’s plea—but he won’t even discuss that.

“No one else was at the bungalow the night of the murder,” the governor continued. “Avery usually took his meals at the quarry superintendent’s house, about five hundred yards away, and the superintendent’s wife looked after the bungalow, but my investigators couldn’t find a clue there. You see, gentlemen, after seven years it’s hard to build a case, but two expert detectives I hired to investigate along certain lines have been hugely helpful. When they couldn’t pick up the scent from where the trial started, I had them work backward from a point far removed from the scene. It was a long shot and likely would have failed, but this time it brought nearly conclusive results.”

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The tablets and pencils provided around the table hadn’t been ignored. Without exception, the guests had been doodling or scribbling; Colton had amused himself sketching the governor’s profile. Burgess seemed not to be giving his full attention to the governor’s account—he kept fidgeting, his eyes sweeping the table with veiled amusement. Then he tapped a bell, and a waiter appeared.

“Pardon me a moment, governor, while the cigars are passed again.”

As the waiter made his rounds with the cigar tray, he also, evidently by prearrangement, collected the tablets and set them before Burgess.

“Changed your mind about the limerick contest, Web?” asked someone.

“Not at all,” said Burgess carelessly. “The tablets have served their purpose. It was just a silly idea of mine.” They noticed, however, that a tablet remained at the empty place awaiting the late guest, and they wondered at this, suspecting that Burgess had planned the dinner carefully and that the governor’s discussion of the Avery case was by design with their host. With growing interest, they pulled their chairs closer.

“The prosecuting attorney in the trial is now a circuit court judge,” the governor resumed once the waiter had left. “I’ve talked with him at length about this case. He admits there are aspects that still puzzle him. The evidence was purely circumstantial, as I indicated; but circumstantial evidence, as Thoreau said, can be very convincing—like finding a trout in the milk! When two men spend the day together in one’s home, and the other turns up dead in a lonely spot nearby, and suspicion falls on no one but the survivor—not even the usual vagrant—then a jury of twelve farmers can be forgiven for accepting the state’s view.”

“The motive you mentioned, business jealousy, doesn’t seem strong enough unless you can establish they quarreled and there was clear enmity,” suggested Fullerton, the lawyer.

“You’re right, and the man who prosecuted Avery admits that,” the governor replied.

“Maybe there was a third man involved,” said Ramsay, “and I suppose the cynical would suggest the usual woman in the case.”

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“I expect those possibilities were explored at the time,” said the governor, “but the only woman in this case is Avery’s wife, and she had never met Reynolds. I’ve found nothing to support any suspicion of a woman. Avery’s stated reason for inviting Reynolds to that isolated spot was simply to discuss merging their quarry interests privately, near Avery’s plant. It seems Avery was organizing a large company to take over several quarries with similar products, and he wanted to get Reynolds’s approval for a selling agreement before the others he hoped to bring in heard about it. That’s plausible; I could make a good case for that. Reynolds, like many small-town capitalists, had many irons in the fire and had done some promoting on his own. Not all financial genius or crookedness is confined to Wall Street, though I sometimes forget that on the campaign trail!

From what I’ve learned of both men, Avery wasn’t likely to put anything over on Reynolds, who was no novice. And there’s nothing to show Avery had any other purpose than a mutually beneficial merger.”

“There probably were papers to support that,” suggested Fullerton, “correspondence and such.”

“Certainly, I’ve reviewed them,” the governor said. “All the papers are in the prosecuting attorney’s office, and I’ve examined them carefully. Now, if Avery could have thrown suspicion on someone else, you’d think he would have. And if there had been a third person at the bungalow that night, wouldn’t he have said so? It’s not human nature to take the blame for another’s crime, yet we do hear of such things; I’ve read novels and seen plays built on that idea. But here is Avery with fifteen more years to serve, and if he’s been bearing the burden of another’s sin, he’s doing it with amazing self-sacrifice.”

“Of course,” said Fullerton, “Reynolds might have had an enemy who followed him there and lay in wait. Or Avery might have been complicit without being the actual killer. That’s possible.”

“Let’s change the subject for a moment,” said the governor, “and return to our sheep later.”

He spoke quietly to Burgess, who looked at his watch and responded audibly:

“We have half an hour left.”

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The governor nodded and, with a whimsical smile, began turning over the tablets.

“These pads were put before you for a purpose I’ll now explain. I apologize for taking advantage of you, but I think you’ll forgive me when you hear my reason. I’ve delved into psychology lately to understand the mind’s quirks. We all do things automatically without conscious effort; we perform acts without realizing we’re doing them. At state board meetings, I’ve noticed that no one ever uses the pads provided except to scribble on. Many people have that habit of doodling on anything handy.

Hotel keepers know this, so they provide pads ostensibly for notes, but really to keep guests from defacing the walls. Left alone with pencil and paper, most of us will scribble or draw meaningless figures.

“Sometimes it shows a deliberate cast of mind, sometimes it’s sheer nervousness. After discussing this with a well-known psychologist, I started watching myself and found I draw a series of looped figure eights in a certain way—I’ve been doing it here!

“And now,” he went on with a chuckle, “you gentlemen have been indulging that same tendency as you listened to me. I find one pad with the word ‘Napoleon’ written twenty times with flourishes; another has a dozen profiles of a man with a bulbous nose—it’s the same gentleman, I see, who honored me by drawing me with a triple chin, for which I thank him. And here’s what looks like a dog kennel repeated down the sheet. Another has sketched the American flag across the page. If the patriotic gentleman who drew the flag will identify himself, I’d like to ask if he realizes he’s done that before.”

“I’m guilty, governor,” Fullerton said. “I believe it’s a habit of mine. I’ve caught myself doing it often.”

“I’m responsible for the man with the bulbous nose,” confessed Colton. “I’ve drawn him for years without improving.”

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“That’s enough,” said the governor, glancing at the door. “We won’t take time to mention the others, though you’ll be relieved to know I have no evidence against you. Burgess, please get these works of art out of the room. Let’s get back to the Avery case. While reviewing the papers, I found that the prosecutor, when searching the bungalow the morning after the murder, discovered several pieces of paper bearing a strange, irregular sketch. I’ll pass one around, but please return it immediately.”

He produced a sheet of letter paper that bore traces of hasty crumpling but had been smoothed out again. It carried the lithographed name of the Avery Quarry Company, and on it was drawn a peculiar device—a square box with arcs above it.

“Note,” said the governor as the paper circulated, “that the same device appears five times, sometimes more irregularly, but the general form is the same. In the fireplace of the bungalow living room, they found this and three other sheets with the same figure. It seems likely that someone sitting at a table amused himself by sketching these outlines and, when he filled the sheet, tore it off and tossed it into the fireplace, unaware of what he was doing. The prosecutor attached no significance to these sheets, and they were only by chance tucked into the case file.”

“Then you suspect there was a third man at the bungalow that night?” Ramsay asked.

The governor nodded gravely. “Yes, and I have some proof of it, quite a bit, in fact. I’ve even had the wastebasket of the suspect examined over a period. Knowing Burgess’s interest in such matters, I enlisted his help to obtain information I needed. Our friend is very resourceful! I wanted to see the man I suspected and observe him off guard, and Burgess arranged that, even going into the tile business to do it! As you can imagine, I couldn’t just summon him to my office, so this little gathering was planned to give me a chance to study him at leisure.”

“Tate!” several men exclaimed.

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“You can see this is delicate,” said the governor slowly. “Burgess thought a smaller party might make Tate suspicious, since he’d never met me. So you see, we’re using you as decoys, so to speak. Burgess vouches for your discretion, and your job is to keep Tate entertained and distracted while I observe him.”

“And when I give the signal, you’re to go into the library and look at picture books,” Burgess added.

“That’s not fair!” said Fullerton. “We want to see how this ends!”

“I’m so nervous,” said Colton, “I might scream!”

“Don’t!” Burgess admonished. “The new House Committee gets upset about noise, and besides, I’ve arranged the rest of the evening, and I don’t want you to spoil it.”

“It seems,” remarked the governor, glancing at his watch, “that our main actor might be late.”

“He wouldn’t bolt,” Burgess replied. “He has no reason to. I told the doorman to send him straight up. When he comes, no more references to the Avery case—understand?”

They murmured agreement, and a solemn silence fell as they looked toward the empty chair.

“This won’t do!” exclaimed the governor, the only calm one in the room. “We must act like bored businessmen having a good time. But I’m tired of talking; someone else should tell a story.”

With encouragement, Fullerton started, but his jokes got only weak laughs. Colton tried his luck when a knock startled them. Burgess was at the door in an instant and flung it open.

---

“Ah, Tate! Come in. The party hasn’t really started yet!”

The newcomer was short and stocky, clean-shaven, with coarse dark hair streaked with gray. He shook hands limply with a hint of embarrassment as Burgess introduced him around.

“Governor Eastman, this is Mr. Tate. That’s your seat by the governor, Tate,” said Burgess. “We were just swapping old stories, so you haven’t missed anything. I hope they didn’t need me at that tile meeting—I avoid night sessions; my doctor insists on my sleep.”

“Night meetings,” said the governor, “always put me in a bad mood the next day. A party like this doesn’t, of course.”

“Up in the country, we still use lodge meetings as an excuse when we want an evening off,” Tate remarked.

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They laughed louder than necessary to put him at ease. He declined Burgess’s offers of food and drink, and when someone started a political discussion, they deliberately drew him in. He was county chairman of the opposing party and good-naturedly complained about the governor’s landslide victory. He spoke slowly, with a determined emphasis, and politics was clearly his favorite topic. His brown eyes, they noted, were unusually large, with a yellowish tinge to the whites. He met stares with unnerving directness.

The governor subtly took charge of the conversation, seriously discussing party differences and offering sharp assessments of national leaders. There was nothing to hint at any hidden agenda; his audience seemed spellbound. Tate accepted a cigar but didn’t light it, instead rolling it between his thick fingers.

“We Democrats have had to change our views on many things,” the governor said. “We’re not going back to Jefferson,” he joked, enjoying the heresy, “but the world has turned many times since then. What we Democrats do well is stay close to public opinion; sometimes it threatens to sweep us away, as in the free-silver days. But we give people a chance to weigh in on new issues, and even our mistakes have served the country. These great contests clear the air like a storm, and afterward we all go peacefully about our business.”

As he spoke, they watched Tate out of the corners of their eyes. He set down his cigar and began fiddling with the pencil on the tablet, absently wrapping the string around it. They pretended to listen intently, but their quick glances betrayed their focus. Burgess had pushed back his chair and was tying knots in his napkin.

Tate occasionally nodded in agreement but kept his eyes on the pencil. His broad shoulders hunched over the table; it seemed a natural pose when deep in thought.

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Eventually, he tired of the pencil and pulled his own from his vest pocket. After joining in a laugh at the governor’s jab at the Republicans, he pulled the tablet closer, tilted his head, and drew a straight line. Burgess frowned as several men shifted for a better view. The silence grew, and the governor’s voice took on an oratorical tone. Through a half-open window came the click of billiard balls below.

The governor moved from Wilson to Cleveland, praising him as a great leader. Normally, there would have been interruptions and jokes, but everyone understood the governor was giving Tate time to draw the telltale design he habitually made when absorbed.

The pencil moved steadily; occasionally Tate turned the pad to inspect his work. The men around him stared, fascinated, as if watching a wild animal approach a trap. The square outline appeared, followed by the arcs above. The governor, having covered Cleveland, moved on to Andrew Jackson. Tate finished a second drawing, fully absorbed.

When Tate set down the pencil, the governor wrapped up his monologue.

“Good heavens, Burgess! Why didn’t you stop me? I’ve said enough to ruin me with my party.”

“I’m glad I got here in time to hear you,” said Tate, pushing back his pad. “I never knew a Democrat could be so open-minded.”

“The governor loosens up between campaigns,” said Burgess, rising. “Now, let’s head to the library where the chairs are more comfortable.”

The governor stood but lingered by his chair, talking to Tate until the others had gone. Then he resumed his seat.

“This is perfectly comfortable. Let’s stay, Mr. Tate. Burgess, close the door, would you?”

Tate hesitated, looked at his watch, then at Burgess, who sat down as if to humor the governor and lit a cigar.

“Mr. Tate,” said the governor calmly, “unless I’m mistaken, you are George Avery’s brother-in-law.”

Tate turned quickly, his eyes widening in surprise. “Yes,” he said slowly, “Avery married my sister.”

“Mr. Tate, I have a pardon in my pocket, ready to sign, that would free Avery. His case has troubled me greatly. I don’t want to sign unless I’m sure of his innocence. If you were in my position, would you sign it?”

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-7494d8b444744883ba952775b18c439e
# book_title: The Third Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-third-man
# chapter_title: The Third Man
# book_page: 15 / 19
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
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The color drained from Tate’s face, and his jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly. “Of course, governor, it would be a relief to all of us if you could pardon George. As you know, I’ve supported that; I’ve done everything proper.”

“Mr. Tate,” the governor interrupted, “I have reason to believe there was a third man at the bungalow the night Reynolds was killed. I’ve worked hard to confirm that. Did you ever think that possible?”

“I suspected it all along,” Tate replied, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “I never believed George was guilty; he wasn’t that kind of man.”

“I don’t think he was,” said the governor. “Now, on the night of the murder, you weren’t at home, nor the next day when your sister called you long-distance. You claimed you were in Louisville, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, certainly, I was in Louisville.”

“Actually, Mr. Tate, you were not in Louisville. You were at the bungalow that night. You left the quarry station on a freight train that was sidetracked to let the Chicago train pass. You rode to Davos, arriving at two in the morning, registered under a false name at the Gerber House, and returned home the next evening, pretending you’d been in Louisville. As a bachelor living above your bank, no one tracked your movements but your clerks, who thought nothing of your trips to Louisville. You were there two days ago, but that’s beside the point. When you heard Reynolds was dead and Avery suspected, you answered your sister’s call and went to Torrenceville.”

“I was in Louisville, I tell you!” Tate gasped, sweating. He wiped his brow and half rose.

“Please sit down. You had quarreled with Reynolds over stock in a creamery that he had promoted, believing he’d swindled you. That hostility festered until you were nearly obsessed, and he refused to meet with you. You asked your brother-in-law to inform you when Reynolds would visit, and he agreed, wanting to help. We can assume Avery arranged a meeting, not telling Reynolds you’d be there—he wouldn’t have come. And so you sat in the living room, discussing the matter. Some of these details I’ve deduced, the rest…”

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-7494d8b444744883ba952775b18c439e
# book_title: The Third Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-third-man
# chapter_title: The Third Man
# book_page: 16 / 19
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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“It’s a lie! You and Burgess set this trap,” Tate shouted. “I wasn’t there! If I had been, would Avery be serving time instead of naming me?”

“Not necessarily, Mr. Tate. Let’s go back. At one point, you had the power to do Avery a great favor. True?”

Tate stared, his lips trembling but silent.

“You’d known him since boyhood, and shortly after he married your sister, you helped him out of a serious jam, saving the quarry for him. It cost me a good deal to uncover that, and Avery never told me. He had forged your name to a note, and you chose to deal generously, maybe for old times’ sake or to spare your sister shame.”

“George was in a corner,” Tate said weakly, but with relief. “He made it right long ago.”

“It’s natural for a man to defend himself, but Avery didn’t. His silence was used against him. Consider this: you and Reynolds left the bungalow together, perhaps after the argument intensified your anger, and you offered to guide him to the station, out of Avery’s hearing. You never returned, Mr. Tate.”

“My God, I wasn’t there! I can prove I was in Louisville!”

“We’ll get to that. Let’s assume—just imagine—that you said you’d go partway, then catch a train home. Avery went to sleep, unaware of anything. He woke to the news that Reynolds had been killed near the quarry derrick. Shocked and dazed, he waited, expecting you, the only one who could verify his innocence, to step forward. But you said nothing, taking advantage of his silence, a silence born of horror and disbelief. You let him face trial and imprisonment.”

Tate’s eyes were fixed on the governor, then dropped. He reached for water but couldn’t lift the glass, glaring at it as if it were an enemy.

“I wasn’t there!” he began, but his voice failed.

The governor continued evenly: “When Avery realized you would stay quiet, he saw that having arranged your meeting, he looked like an accomplice, and even if he told the truth, he’d drag you down without fully clearing himself. He knew you as a good man, and he bore the burden. You were secretive, and your tracks were well hidden. Everyone believed Avery guilty. I’ve lain awake at night thinking of his silent suffering while he waited for you to save him.”

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-7494d8b444744883ba952775b18c439e
# book_title: The Third Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-third-man
# chapter_title: The Third Man
# book_page: 17 / 19
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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“I didn’t do it!” Tate whispered hoarsely.

“Now, about your alibi,” the governor said, reaching for the tablet and holding it in front of Tate. “You can’t deny you drew this—I watched you. I ask you, isn’t this also your work?” He pulled out the crumpled paper from earlier and set it beside the tablet. Tate jumped up, staring wildly, and groaned. The governor pushed him back down.

“That paper is from Avery’s quarry office. As you talked with Reynolds that night, you doodled that same figure, just as you did here. You were creating evidence against yourself without knowing it. I have three other sheets from the quarry with that device, and I’ve collected others from your own office within the past week. Habit is a powerful thing. For years, your subconscious has drawn that symbol, and whenever you’re deep in thought, your hand traces it. The irregularities match, the shading is identical. So, Mr. Tate, shall I sign this pardon and free George Avery?”

Tate’s face was streaming sweat; his collar was limp. He tried to meet the governor’s gaze but faltered. He pulled out his pencil, then tossed it away, his shoulders drooping.

---

Burgess was at the window, his back to them. The governor signaled to him, and he nodded, stepping out. He returned with two men, closing the door.

“Hello, warden, have a seat,” said the governor, turning to a tall, pale man with intense blue eyes. The man moved slowly, hesitantly, as if blind in a strange room. The governor smiled reassuringly.

“I’m very glad to see you, Avery,” he said, taking his hand.

At the name, Tate’s head snapped up.

His chair creaked as he spun to face the gaunt figure behind him, then he made a strange, guttural sound, like a death rattle, and slumped forward, arms sprawling on the table.

The governor kept hold of Avery’s hand, speaking with awe. “You needn’t be afraid, Avery. I know my method was harsh, but it seemed necessary. Tell me: was Tate at the bungalow that night? He was there, wasn’t he?”

Avery wavered, steadied himself, and slowly shook his head. The governor repeated the question, more softly, then a third time. Avery’s mouth opened, but he only moistened his lips and stared blankly.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-7494d8b444744883ba952775b18c439e
# book_title: The Third Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-third-man
# chapter_title: The Third Man
# book_page: 18 / 19
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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The governor turned away, placing a hand on Tate’s shoulder. “If you are innocent, Tate, now is the time to speak, in front of Avery. That’s why I brought him here. I won’t sign the pardon if you believe Avery is guilty.”

He waited, watching Tate’s hands clench and relax. A deep, hoarse sob shook the man’s thick body.

The governor sat, pulled out a bundle of papers, removed one, and uncapped a pen. He tested it, then with a steady hand, signed his name.

“Warden,” he said, waving the paper to dry the ink, “thank you for coming. You’ll need to go home alone. Avery is free.”

---

When Burgess arrived at the bank at ten the next morning, his friends from the previous night were waiting in the directors’ room. They greeted him without their usual jokes; he nodded and sat on the table.

“We don’t want to bother you, Web,” said Colton, “but we’d all feel better if we knew what happened after we left. I hope you don’t mind.”

Burgess frowned and shook his head. “You should thank God you didn’t see the rest. I’m taking the night train to the city to try to forget it.”

“We only know what the papers said this morning,” said Ramsay. “A brief note that Avery had been pardoned. They didn’t mention the dinner party.”

“The governor asked me to keep it quiet. Avery is at my house; his wife was waiting when I brought him home.”

“We expected that,” said Colton. “We watched from the library window. But about the other man—that’s what’s bothering us.”

Burgess crossed his legs. “That was the worst part.”

“Tate was guilty; we assume that,” said Fullerton. “He was signing his own death warrant when he drew that figure.”

“Yes,” Burgess replied gravely, “and he practically admitted it. I hope I never witness anything like that again.” He got up and paced. “After the pardon was signed, I sent the warden to get Avery a drink.

Then Tate came to, crying and begging for mercy, on his knees. It was awful. I expected the governor to call the police, and so did Tate. But instead, the governor looked at him and said, ‘You poor fool, the commonwealth has no punishment that wouldn’t only lessen the burden you’ll carry until you die.’ That was all. I got Tate a room at the club and had him put to bed.”

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-7494d8b444744883ba952775b18c439e
# book_title: The Third Man
# chapter_id: 1-the-third-man
# chapter_title: The Third Man
# book_page: 19 / 19
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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“But the governor had no right—” Ramsay began.

“The king can do no wrong,” Burgess cut in. “And if you don’t mind, the matter is closed, and we’ll never speak of it again.”