Love always,
Roger.
Billie was undoubtedly Shaver’s nickname. This delighted The Hopper. That they should possess the same name appeared to create a strong bond of comradeship. The writer of the note was presumably the child’s father and the “Dear Sweetheart” the youngster’s mother. The Hopper was not reassured by these disclosures. The return of Shaver to his parents was far from being the pleasant little Christmas Eve adventure he had imagined. He had only the lowest opinion of a father who would, on a winter evening, carelessly leave his baby in a motor-car while he looked at pictures, and who, finding both motor and baby gone, would take it for granted that the baby’s mother had run off with them. But these people were artists, and artists, The Hopper had heard, were a queer breed, sadly lacking in common sense. He tore the note into strips which he stuffed into his pocket.
Depressed by the impenetrable wall of mystery along which he was groping, he returned to the living-room, raised one of the windows, and unbolted the front door to make sure of an exit in case these strange, foolish Talbots should unexpectedly return. The shades were up and he shielded his light carefully with his cap as he passed rapidly about the room. It began to look very much as though Shaver would spend Christmas at Happy Hill Farm—a possibility that had not figured in The Hopper’s calculations.
Flashing his lamp for a last survey a letter propped against a lamp on the table arrested his eye. He dropped to the floor and crawled into a corner where he turned his light upon the note and read, not without difficulty, the following:—
Seven o’clock.
Dear Roger:—
I’ve just got back from father’s where I spent the last three hours talking over our troubles. I didn’t tell you I was going, knowing you would think it foolish, but it seemed best, dear, and I hope you’ll forgive me. And now I find that you’ve gone off with Billie, and I’m guessing that you’ve gone to your father’s to see what you can do. I’m taking the trolley into New Haven to ask Mamie Palmer about that cook she thought we might get, and if possible I’ll bring the girl home with me. Don’t trouble about me, as I’ll be perfectly safe, and, as you know, I rather enjoy prowling around at night. You’ll certainly get back before I do, but if I’m not here don’t be alarmed.
We are so happy in each other, dear, and if only we could get our foolish fathers to stop hating each other, how beautiful everything would be! And we could all have such a merry, merry Christmas!
Muriel.
The Hopper’s acquaintance with the epistolary art was the slightest, but even to a mind unfamiliar with this branch of literature it was plain that Shaver’s parents were involved in some difficulty that was attributable, not to any lessening of affection between them, but to a row of some sort between their respective fathers. Muriel, running into the house to write her note, had failed to see Roger’s letter in the studio, and this was very fortunate for The Hopper; but Muriel might return at any moment, and it would add nothing to the plausibility of the story he meant to tell if he were found in the house.
VI
Anxious and dejected at the increasing difficulties that confronted him, he was moving toward the door when a light, buoyant step sounded on the veranda. In a moment the living-room lights were switched on from the entry and a woman called out sharply:—
“Stop right where you are or I’ll shoot!”
The authoritative voice of the speaker, the quickness with which she had grasped the situation and leveled her revolver, brought The Hopper to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, where he fell with a discordant crash across the keyboard of a grand piano. He turned, cowering, to confront a tall, young woman in a long ulster who advanced toward him slowly, but with every mark of determination upon her face. The Hopper stared beyond the gun, held in a very steady hand, into a pair of fearless dark eyes. In all his experiences he had never been cornered by a woman, and he stood gaping at his captor in astonishment. She was a very pretty young woman, with cheeks that still had the curve of youth, but with a chin that spoke for much firmness of character. A fur toque perched a little to one side gave her a boyish air.
This undoubtedly was Shaver’s mother who had caught him prowling in her house, and all The Hopper’s plans for explaining her son’s disappearance and returning him in a manner to win praise and gratitude went glimmering. There was nothing in the appearance of this Muriel to encourage a hope that she was either embarrassed or alarmed by his presence. He had been captured many times, but the trick had never been turned by any one so cool as this young woman. She seemed to be pondering with the greatest calmness what disposition she should make of him. In the intentness of her thought the revolver wavered for an instant, and The Hopper, without taking his eyes from her, made a cat-like spring that brought him to the window he had raised against just such an emergency.
“None of that!” she cried, walking slowly toward him without lowering the pistol. “If you attempt to jump from that window I’ll shoot! But it’s cold in here and you may lower it.”
The Hopper, weighing the chances, decided that the odds were heavily against escape, and lowered the window.
“Now,” said Muriel, “step into that corner and keep your hands up where I can watch them.”
The Hopper obeyed her instructions strictly. There was a telephone on the table near her and he expected her to summon help; but to his surprise she calmly seated herself, resting her right elbow on the arm of the chair, her head slightly tilted to one side, as she inspected him with greater attention along the blue-black barrel of her automatic. Unless he made a dash for liberty this extraordinary woman would, at her leisure, turn him over to the police as a house-breaker and his peaceful life as a chicken farmer would be at an end. Her prolonged silence troubled The Hopper. He had not been more nervous when waiting for the report of the juries which at times had passed upon his conduct, or for judges to fix his term of imprisonment.
“Yes’m,” he muttered, with a view to ending a silence that had become intolerable.
Her eyes danced to the accompaniment of her thoughts, but in no way did she betray the slightest perturbation.
“I ain’t done nothin’; hones’ to God, I ain’t!” he protested brokenly.
“I saw you through the window when you entered this room and I was watching while you read that note,” said his captor. “I thought it funny that you should do that instead of packing up the silver. Do you mind telling me just why you read that note?”
“Well, miss, I jes’ thought it kind o’ funny there wuzn’t nobody round an’ the letter was layin’ there all open, an’ I didn’t see no harm in lookin’.”
“It was awfully clever of you to crawl into the corner so nobody could see your light from the windows,” she said with a tinge of admiration. “I suppose you thought you might find out how long the people of the house were likely to be gone and how much time you could spend here. Was that it?”
“I reckon ut wuz somethin’ like that,” he agreed.
This was received with the noncommittal “Um” of a person whose thoughts are elsewhere. Then, as though she were eliciting from an artist or man of letters a frank opinion as to his own ideas of his attainments and professional standing, she asked, with a meditative air that puzzled him as much as her question:—
“Just how good a burglar are you? Can you do a job neatly and safely?”
The Hopper, staggered by her inquiry and overcome by modesty, shrugged his shoulders and twisted about uncomfortably.
“I reckon as how you’ve pinched me I ain’t much good,” he replied, and was rewarded with a smile followed by a light little laugh. He was beginning to feel pleased that she manifested no fear of him. In fact, he had decided that Shaver’s mother was the most remarkable woman he had ever encountered, and by all odds the handsomest. He began to take heart. Perhaps after all he might hit upon some way of restoring Shaver to his proper place in the house of Talbot without making himself liable to a long term for kidnaping.
“Yes’m!” faltered The Hopper, beginning to wonder if Mary and Humpy had been right in saying that he had lost his mind. He was so astonished that his arms wavered, but she was instantly on her feet and the little automatic was again on a level with his eyes.
“Excuse me, miss, I didn’t mean to drop ’em. I weren’t goin’ to do nothin’. Hones’ I wuzn’t!” he pleaded with real contrition. “It jes’ seemed kind o’ funny what ye said.”
He grinned sheepishly. If she knew that her Billie, alias Shaver, was not with her husband at his father’s house, she would not be dallying in this fashion. And if the young father, who painted pictures, and left notes in his studio in a blind faith that his wife would find them,—if that trusting soul knew that Billie was asleep in a house all of whose inmates had done penance behind prison bars, he would very quickly become a man of action. The Hopper had never heard of such careless parenthood! These people were children! His heart warmed to them in pity and admiration, as it had to little Billie.
“I forgot to ask you whether you are armed,” she remarked, with just as much composure as though she were asking him whether he took two lumps of sugar in his tea; and then she added, “I suppose I ought to have asked you that in the first place.”
“I gotta gun in my coat—right side,” he confessed. “An’ that’s all I got,” he added, batting his eyes under the spell of her bewildering smile.
With her left hand she cautiously extracted his revolver and backed away with it to the table.
“If you’d lied to me I should have killed you; do you understand?”
“Yes’m,” murmured The Hopper meekly.
She had spoken as though homicide were a common incident of her life, but a gleam of humor in the eyes she was watching vigilantly abated her severity.
“You may sit down—there, please!”
She pointed to a much bepillowed davenport and The Hopper sank down on it, still with his hands up. To his deepening mystification she backed to the windows and lowered the shades, and this done she sat down with the table between them, remarking,—
“You may put your hands down now, Mr.——?”
He hesitated, decided that it was unwise to give any of his names; and respecting his scruples she said with great magnanimity:—
“Of course you wouldn’t want to tell me your name, so don’t trouble about that.”
She sat, wholly tranquil, her arms upon the table, both hands caressing the small automatic, while his own revolver, of different pattern and larger caliber, lay close by. His status was now established as that of a gentleman making a social call upon a lady who, in the pleasantest manner imaginable and yet with undeniable resoluteness, kept a deadly weapon pointed in the general direction of his person.
A clock on the mantel struck eleven with a low, silvery note. Muriel waited for the last stroke and then spoke crisply and directly.
“We were speaking of that letter I left lying here on the table. You didn’t understand it, of course; you couldn’t—not really. So I will explain it to you. My husband and I married against our fathers’ wishes; both of them were opposed to it.”
She waited for this to sink into his perturbed consciousness. The Hopper frowned and leaned forward to express his sympathetic interest in this confidential disclosure.
“My father,” she resumed, “is just as stupid as my father-in-law and they have both continued to make us just as uncomfortable as possible. The cause of the trouble is ridiculous. There’s nothing against my husband or me, you understand; it’s simply a bitter jealousy between the two men due to the fact that they are rival collectors.”
The Hopper stared blankly. The only collectors with whom he had enjoyed any acquaintance were persons who presented bills for payment.
“They are collectors,” Muriel hastened to explain, “of ceramics—precious porcelains and that sort of thing.”
“Yes’m,” assented The Hopper, who hadn’t the faintest notion of what she meant.
“For years, whenever there have been important sales of these things, which men fight for and are willing to die for—whenever there has been something specially fine in the market, my father-in-law—he’s Mr. Talbot—and Mr. Wilton—he’s my father—have bid for them. There are auctions, you know, and people come from all over the world looking for a chance to buy the rarest pieces. They’ve explored China and Japan hunting for prizes and they are experts—men of rare taste and judgment—what you call connoisseurs.”
The Hopper nodded gravely at the unfamiliar word, convinced that not only were Muriel and her husband quite insane, but that they had inherited the infirmity.
“The trouble has been,” Muriel continued, “that Mr. Talbot and my father both like the same kind of thing; and when one has got something the other wanted, of course it has added to the ill-feeling. This has been going on for years and recently they have grown more bitter. When Roger and I ran off and got married, that didn’t help matters any; but just within a few days something has happened to make things much worse than ever.”
The Hopper’s complete absorption in this novel recital was so manifest that she put down the revolver with which she had been idling and folded her hands.
“Thank ye, miss,” mumbled The Hopper.
“Only last week,” Muriel continued, “my father-in-law bought one of those pottery treasures—a plum-blossom vase made in China hundreds of years ago and very, very valuable. It belonged to a Philadelphia collector who died not long ago and Mr. Talbot bought it from the executor of the estate, who happened to be an old friend of his. Father was very angry, for he had been led to believe that this vase was going to be offered at auction and he’d have a chance to bid on it. And just before that father had got hold of a jar—a perfectly wonderful piece of red Lang-Yao—that collectors everywhere have coveted for years. This made Mr. Talbot furious at father. My husband is at his father’s now trying to make him see the folly of all this, and I visited my father to-day to try to persuade him to stop being so foolish. You see I wanted us all to be happy for Christmas! Of course, Christmas ought to be a time of gladness for everybody. Even people in your—er—profession must feel that Christmas is one day in the year when all hard feelings should be forgotten and everybody should try to make others happy.”
“I guess yer right, miss. Ut sure seems foolish fer folks t’ git mad about jugs like you says. Wuz they empty, miss?”
“Empty!” repeated Muriel wonderingly, not understanding at once that her visitor was unaware that the “jugs” men fought over were valued as art treasures and not for their possible contents. Then she laughed merrily, as only the mother of Shaver could laugh.
“Oh! Of course they’re empty! That does seem to make it sillier, doesn’t it? But they’re like famous pictures, you know, or any beautiful work of art that only happens occasionally. Perhaps it seems odd to you that men can be so crazy about such things, but I suppose sometimes you have wanted things very, very much, and—oh!”
She paused, plainly confused by her tactlessness in suggesting to a member of his profession the extremities to which one may be led by covetousness.
“Yes, miss,” he remarked hastily; and he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, and grinned indulgently as he realized the cause of her embarrassment. It crossed his mind that she might be playing a trick of some kind; that her story, which seemed to him wholly fantastic and not at all like a chronicle of the acts of veritable human beings, was merely a device for detaining him until help arrived. But he dismissed this immediately as unworthy of one so pleasing, so beautiful, so perfectly qualified to be the mother of Shaver!
“Well, just before luncheon, without telling my
husband where I was going, I ran away to papa’s, hoping to persuade him to end this silly feud. I spent the afternoon there and he was very unreasonable. He feels that Mr. Talbot wasn’t fair about that Philadelphia purchase, and I gave it up and came home. I got here a little after dark and found my husband had taken Billie—that’s our little boy—and gone. I knew, of course, that he had gone to his father’s hoping to bring him round, for both our fathers are simply crazy about Billie. But you see I never go to Mr. Talbot’s and my husband never goes—Dear me!” she broke off suddenly. “I suppose I ought to telephone and see if Billie is all right.”
The Hopper, greatly alarmed, thrust his head forward as she pondered this. If she telephoned to her father-in-law’s to ask about Billie, the jig would be up! He drew his hand across his face and fell back with relief as she went on, a little absently:—
“Mr. Talbot hates telephoning, and it might be that my husband is just getting him to the point of making concessions, and I shouldn’t want to interrupt. It’s so late now that of course Roger and Billie will spend the night there. And Billie and Christmas ought to be a combination that would soften the hardest heart! You ought to see—you just ought to see Billie! He’s the cunningest, dearest baby in the world!”
The Hopper sat pigeon-toed, beset by countless conflicting emotions. His ingenuity was taxed to its utmost by the demands of this complex situation. But for his returning suspicion that Muriel was leading up to something; that she was detaining him for some purpose not yet apparent, he would have told her of her husband’s note and confessed that the adored Billie was at that moment enjoying the reluctant hospitality of Happy Hill Farm. He resolved to continue his policy of silence as to the young heir’s whereabouts until Muriel had shown her hand. She had not wholly abandoned the thought of telephoning to her father-in-law’s, he found, from her next remark.
“You think it’s all right, don’t you? It’s strange Roger didn’t leave me a note of some kind. Our cook left a week ago and there was no one here when he left.”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 27