"Anything wrong in here?" asked the wild-game peddler as Heise and Trina came up. Two more men stopped on the corner of the alley and Polk Street and looked at the group. A woman with a towel round her head raised a window opposite Zerkow's house and called to the woman who had been washing the steps, "What is it, Mrs. Flint?"
Heise was already inside the house. He turned to Trina, panting from his run.
"Where did you say--where was it--where?"
"In there," said Trina, "farther in--the next room." They burst into the kitchen.
"LORD!" ejaculated Heise, stopping a yard or so from the body, and bending down to peer into the gray face with its brown lips.
"By God! he's killed her."
"Who?"
"Zerkow, by God! he's killed her. Cut her throat. He always said he would."
"Zerkow?"
"He's killed her. Her throat's cut. Good Lord, how she did bleed! By God! he's done for her in good shape this time."
"Oh, I told her--I TOLD her," cried Trina.
"He's done for her SURE this time."
"She said she could always manage--Oh-h! It's horrible."
"He's done for her sure this trip. Cut her throat.
LORD, how she has BLED! Did you ever see so much-- that's murder--that's cold-blooded murder. He's killed her. Say, we must get a policeman. Come on."
They turned back through the house. Half a dozen people-- the wild-game peddler, the man with the broad-brimmed hat, the washwoman, and three other men--were in the front room of the junk shop, a bank of excited faces surged at the door. Beyond this, outside, the crowd was packed solid from one end of the alley to the other. Out in Polk Street the cable cars were nearly blocked and were bunting a way slowly through the throng with clanging bells. Every window had its group. And as Trina and the harness-maker tried to force the way from the door of the junk shop the throng suddenly parted right and left before the passage of two blue-coated policemen who clove a passage through the press, working their elbows energetically. They were accompanied by a third man in citizen's clothes.
Heise and Trina went back into the kitchen with the two policemen, the third man in citizen's clothes cleared the intruders from the front room of the junk shop and kept the crowd back, his arm across the open door.
"Whew!" whistled one of the officers as they came out into the kitchen, "cutting scrape? By George! SOMEBODY'S been using his knife all right." He turned to the other officer. "Better get the wagon. There's a box on the second corner south. Now, then," he continued, turning to Trina and the harness-maker and taking out his note-book and pencil, "I want your names and addresses."
It was a day of tremendous excitement for the entire street.
Long after the patrol wagon had driven away, the crowd remained. In fact, until seven o'clock that evening groups collected about the door of the junk shop, where a policeman stood guard, asking all manner of questions, advancing all manner of opinions.
"Do you think they'll get him?" asked Ryer of the policeman.
A dozen necks craned forward eagerly.
"Hoh, we'll get him all right, easy enough," answered the other, with a grand air.
"What? What's that? What did he say?" asked the people on the outskirts of the group. Those in front passed the answer back.
"He says they'll get him all right, easy enough."
The group looked at the policeman admiringly.
"He's skipped to San Jose."
Where the rumor started, and how, no one knew. But every one seemed persuaded that Zerkow had gone to San Jose.
"But what did he kill her for? Was he drunk?"
"No, he was crazy, I tell you--crazy in the head. Thought she was hiding some money from him."
Frenna did a big business all day long. The murder was the one subject of conversation. Little parties were made up in his saloon--parties of twos and threes--to go over and have a look at the outside of the junk shop. Heise was the most important man the length and breadth of Polk Street; almost invariably he accompanied these parties, telling again and again of the part he had played in the affair.
"It was about eleven o'clock. I was standing in front of the shop, when Mrs. McTeague--you know, the dentist's wife-- came running across the street," and so on and so on.
The next day came a fresh sensation. Polk Street read of it in the morning papers. Towards midnight on the day of the murder Zerkow's body had been found floating in the bay near Black Point. No one knew whether he had drowned himself or fallen from one of the wharves. Clutched in both his hands was a sack full of old and rusty pans, tin dishes--fully a hundred of them--tin cans, and iron knives and forks, collected from some dump heap.
"And all this," exclaimed Trina, "on account of a set of gold dishes that never existed."
