CHAPTER VI
The one idea which possessed Kenwick after dragging himself back throughthe broken window was to find out if the woman upstairs was safe. Thejourney out to the big gate and back had consumed almost an hour, and ashe pulled himself in between the wide board and shattered glass he feltthat it must have been years since he had gone on that painful quest. Herested for a few moments and then went into the front hall.
To his amazement he found it ablaze with light. Brilliant too was theliving-room beyond. In the latter he had never used anything but theshaded lamp upon the table. Now the chandeliers in the ceiling had beenlighted from the switchboard button. It was evident that some one hadbeen all over the lower part of the house while he was gone. It musthave been the woman upstairs. There was no one else on the premisesexcept that half-witted garden boy.
Grimly resolved to discover whether his mysterious companion was stillconcealing herself behind locked doors or whether her apartment hadbeen stormed by some prowler he made his way up to the room in the frontof the right wing. As he approached it he called to her asking if shewas all right. There was no response. He knocked. The sound echoed dullydown the handsome stairway. Then in a futile sort of way he tried theknob.
This time it yielded to his touch and swung slowly open. For a moment hehesitated, dreading to snap on the light. Then the stillness grewoppressive. His quick, impatient fingers groped along the wall, foundthe switch-button, and pressed it. The mysterious apartment flashed intosudden reality.
Kenwick looked about him, bewildered. The light revealed a largehandsome room furnished in golden oak. There was a massive double bed,bureau, dressing-table, and several luxurious chairs. A heavy moquettecarpet deadened every footfall, and the rose-colored draperies at thewindows admitted only a restricted view of the outer world. But it wasthe condition of the room, not its furnishings, that puzzled the manupon the threshold. Dust covered every polished surface. The hearth wasswept clean. There had been no fire on it for months, perhaps years. Onthe bed was a mattress but no coverings. The mirrors on bureau anddressing-table showed a thin veil of dust. There were no toiletarticles, no personal belongings of any kind. The room was evidently awoman's but there was no hint of a woman's presence, except that in theair hung a faint perfume of heliotrope. He remembered suddenly that itwas the perfume that Marcreta Morgan had always used.
Kenwick went over to one of the chairs and sat down. He felt intenselyrelieved. If the woman had gone away she would certainly send some oneback to the house, for she knew that he was alone and injured. But howhad she gone? Was there another entrance to these somber grounds? Forhalf an hour he sat there trying to think it out. The room grew verycold. It had apparently been shut off from the furnace connection. Hearose at last, stiffly, and went back downstairs, switching off thelights. In the living-room and hall he turned them off too, for theygave to the solemn rooms a garish, incongruous splendor.
He went into the den and took his old place on the upholsteredwindow-seat. It may have been twenty minutes later that he heard thesound of wheels crunching the gravel of the driveway. He listenedintently. No, this time he was not mistaken. Some vehicle wasapproaching the house. The stranger in goggles had been true to hispromise and had sent back help, or perhaps returned himself. At lastthis hideous bondage was to end. He limped into the living-room andwithout turning on the light, peered out. There was no one in sight andno sound of voices, but at the foot of the front steps stood a longblack car. It recalled to him in a flash the beetle-black limousine thathe had seen in the tank-house garage.
Impelled by his entry into the room upstairs to try the front door, heturned the knob. It was unlocked. Whoever had come in or gone out hadbeen in too much of a hurry to fasten it this time.
And then, standing there at that half-open door, Kenwick suddenly losthis headlong impatience. For the realization came to him at last thathis experiences of the last twenty-four hours were no casual adventure.This was a game, perhaps even a trap. He had inadvertently stepped intoa carefully laid plot. That it had been obviously prepared for somebodyelse did not alter the seriousness of his present position. Whoever wasengineering the thing had assumed that he would do and say certainthings. And now, he reminded himself angrily, he had probably done andsaid them all. Certainly his every move had been direct, impetuous,glaringly obvious. He would have to change his course unless he wantedto die in this accursed house. This game, whatever it was, couldn't bewon by throwing all the cards face up on the table and demanding areckoning. The other players wore masks. If he was to have any chanceagainst them he must adopt their tactics.
He assured himself of all this while he limped down the shallow porchsteps. He hadn't the faintest notion of what he was going to do next,but decided to trust to impulse. He had reached the lowest step when allat once he recoiled. Almost with his hand upon the beetle-blacklimousine he discovered that it was not a limousine at all. It was ahearse.
At that same moment, he heard, coming from the near distance, the voiceof some one speaking with unaccustomed restraint. It was a raucous voicetalking in a harsh whisper. And then there was a sound of footstepsapproaching.
Without an instant's hesitation Kenwick opened the door of the hearse,pulled himself inside, and drew it shut, unlatched behind him. Therewas no definite plan in his mind except to escape. And the woman hadapparently fled so he felt no further responsibility for her.
The steps came nearer. In another minute some one might jerk open thedoor and discover him. And he remembered uneasily that now he was notarmed. He had left the revolver on the table in the den. The footstepsstopped close to his head and a man's voice called to somebody at adistance.
"My orders was to come out here. That's all I know about it. But I'm notgoin' to get myself tied up in any mess like this. It's up to thecoroner first. It just means that I'll have to make another trip outhere to-morrow."
Kenwick heard him clamber to the high seat, and heard him jam his footagainst the starter, heard its throbbing response. And then he startedaway on his long weird drive through the black night.
He had expected his conveyance to be almost as close and stifling as atomb, but was relieved to find that sufficient air came in through thecrack of the door to make the trip endurable. The only provident thingthat he had done during the whole adventure, he decided, was to put onhis overcoat and hat before leaving the den. One journey bareheadedinto the November night had been sufficient to warn him against arepetition of such rashness. He was dressed now as he had been when hefirst took stock of himself outside the tall iron gate.
The road was smooth asphalt all of the way, and the passenger, stretchedat full length on the hard floor of the hearse, felt more comfortablethan he had all that ghastly day. During the ride he tried to formulatesome definite course of action. For now that the solitary desolation ofthe last twenty-four hours was ended, he was able to detach himself fromits events and to view the whole experience as a spectator.
His vivid imagination pictured the somber house in a dozen differentlights. But he discarded them one by one, and his interest centeredabout the identity of the woman upstairs and the single shot which hadpierced the stillness of a few hours before. Of only one thing he wascertain--that he was going to get out of Mont-Mer as speedily aspossible. It was all very well to conjecture that the house might be thedisreputable retreat of some Eastern capitalist, or a rendezvous forradicals, but he preferred to solve the riddle from a distance. He hadno intention of being called as a witness in an ugly expose. It wouldbe easy enough to write to Old Man Raeburn and explain that it hadn'tbeen possible for him to stop off on his way to San Francisco. Hefervently hoped that he would never see Mont-Mer again. Without everhaving really seen it he had come to loathe it.
He had ridden for twenty minutes or more when he felt the vehicle slowdown. It made a sharp turn and came to a stop. Kenwick wondered if thedriver would open the doors, and he lay there waiting, staring into thedark, impassive in the hands of fate. He heard the man cli
mb down fromhis seat and then the sound of his footsteps growing fainter in thedistance.
Ten minutes later Kenwick cautiously pushed open the flimsy doors andworked himself out of his hiding-place. He was in an alley enclosed onthree sides by the backs of buildings. Half hopping, half crawling hereached the dimly lighted street. It was almost midnight now and thelittle town was deserted. At the corner he found a drug-store. It lookedwarm, companionable, inviting. Drawing his fur-collared overcoat abouthis ears he hobbled to the door and pushed it open.
Inside two men were leaning against a glass show-case talking with theclerk. At Kenwick's entrance the conversation stopped abruptly like thedialogue of movie actors when the camera clicks the scene's end. Theintruder, clutching at one of the show-cases for support, forced acomradely smile. "If I can't put one over here," he told himself, "Idon't deserve to be called a fiction-writer."
But before he had time to speak one of the men came forward with astartled questioning. "You look all in, man; white as a sheet. Sit downhere. What's the idea?"
"Pretty close call," Kenwick told him. "A fellow in a car bowled me overas I was crossing the street. He went right on, but I doubt if I'll beable to for a while."
"Well, what do you know about that?" the drug clerk challenged, as hehelped his visitor into a chair behind the prescription-desk. "Say, thisis gettin' to be one of the worst towns on the coast for auto accidents.Didn't get his number, I suppose?"
"No. And I'm just a stranger passing through here. I don't know manypeople."
"Hard luck." It was evident that the trio were disappointed in themeagerness of his story. One of them stooped and was probing theswollen leg with skilful fingers. Kenwick winced.
"You've got a bad sprain there all right," the doctor told him. "It'sswollen a good deal, too, for being so recent. Have you walked far?"
"Yes, rather." Kenwick watched in silence while the physician bound upthe injured member in a stout bandage. In spite of his best efforts onesharp moan escaped him.
"Your nerves are badly shaken, I can see that," the doctor decided. "Fixhim up a little bromide, Gregson."
Kenwick took the glass, furious to note that it trembled in his hand.The druggist attempted to joke him back to normal poise. "A little moreof a jolt and you'd have had to pass him up to Gifford, Doc. Gifford,here," he went on by way of introduction, "is shipping a body northto-night on the twelve-thirty. Bein' two of you, he might have got therailroad to give your folks a special rate if you're goin' his way."
The patient evinced mild interest. "San Francisco?" he inquired. Theundertaker nodded.
"That's the train I hoped to make," Kenwick sighed. "But my money seemsto have been jolted out of me and----" He went carefully through hispockets as he spoke. And then Gifford came over and stood beside him."If you don't mind," he began, "I'd like to know your name."
Kenwick's reply was glibly reassuring. "Kenneth Rogers."
"Oh! You that young Rogers that's been visiting for a few days at thePaddington place, 'Utopia'?" It was the doctor who asked this question.
Kenwick nodded warily.
The physician extended his hand. "I'm Markham. Had an engagement to playgolf with you out at the country club this afternoon. Awfully sorry youcouldn't make it but I got the message all right from your sister thatyou were having trouble with your car out near Hillside Inn and youcouldn't get away."
As Kenwick wrung his hand with easy cordiality there flashed before hismental vision the picture of the wayfarer in goggles. Could a malignfate have trapped him into taking the name of that visitor to Mont-Mer,or any visitor, who might some day arise and challenge him? He had gotto get out of this place before the net that the gods were weaving abouthim should bind him hand and foot.
"Say, listen." Gifford forced himself to the front again, speaking witha mixture of eagerness and hesitation. "If you're goin' up to the cityto-night, I wonder if----You see, it's like this. I've got a bigmasonic funeral on here for Thursday morning. It'll be a hell of a rushfor me to get back in time if I have to make this trip. But I promised alittle woman that I'd see personally to this shipment; send aresponsible party or go myself. I haven't got a soul to send, but ifyou----."
Kenwick shook his head. "I won't be able to leave now until to-morrow.I'll have to wait and get some money."
Gifford waved aside the objection. "Your expenses will be paid, ofcourse, as mine would have been. I'll advance you the funds. And youdon't have to _do_ a thing, you know. Wellman's man will meet the trainat the other end. Wait and see the casket in his hands and then you'rethrough."
He watched the other man eagerly. For a moment Kenwick didn't trusthimself to meet his gaze. He hoped that he was not betraying in his facethe jubilant conviction that his guardian angel had suddenly returnedfrom a vacation and had renewed an interest in him. In order not toappear too eagerly acquiescent he asked casually: "Who is the fellow?Or who was he?"
"Man by the name of Marstan. He wasn't known around here. His wife hadto come down from the city to identify him." He glanced at his watch."There's just about time to make the train now. I've got my car outside.It's luck, your stumbling in here like this. Sheer luck."
"Luck is too mild a word for it," Kenwick assured himself as he crawledinto his Pullman a few moments later. "It's providence, old boy. That'swhat it is."
The bromide had begun to do its work. And his leg, properly bandaged,gave him no pain. Almost hilarious over the knowledge that daylightwould find him among familiar surroundings again, he fell into thedelicious slumber that follows sudden surcease of mental strain.
When he awoke the train was speeding through the oak-dotted region ofSan Mateo. He had refused to accept any expense-money from Giffordexcept enough for his breakfast, and after a cup of coffee in the diner,he sat gazing out of the window, not caring to open conversation withany of his fellow-travelers, completely absorbed in the business ofreadjusting himself to this environment that he had loved and fromwhich the war had so abruptly uprooted him.
It was glorious to be back again, to catch up the loose threads of theold life. And in spite of the stark bareness of winter, the landscapehad never seemed so appealing. The wide level stretches of pasture, cutby ribbons of asphalt, the prosperous little towns which the CoastCompany's fast train ignored on its thunderous dash northward, thechildren walking to school, the pruners waving their shears to him as hesped by--all these breathed a healthy normal living that made theneurotic adventures of the past day seem remote and unreal.
Under the long shed of the Third and Townsend Depot he lingered onlyuntil he had carried out Gifford's instructions. Then he went on downthe open corridor to the waiting-rooms. Outside the voices oftaxi-drivers and hotel busmen made the radiant winter morning hideouswith their cries. The waiting-room was warm and bright. There was nobetter place, Kenwick reflected, to map out his program. The air was atonic, crisp and tipped with frost. It was too cold to be without anovercoat and yet, if Everett did not make punctual reply to the messagethat he was about to send, he might have to part with it for a time.
He found a seat in a corner where he would be out of the draft ofincessantly opening doors. For in spite of his good night's sleep hefelt weak and a little giddy. Resolving to dismiss the past from hismind and concern himself solely with the present was good logic, butdifficult of accomplishment. First, and dominating all his thought, wasMarcreta Morgan. The thought of her brought him a dull pain. So manyletters he had written her since his return to New York, and not one ofthem had she ever answered. Once, in vague alarm, he had even written toClinton, but there had been no reply. And then pride had held himsilent. So he couldn't go to the house on Pine Street now. He wouldn'tgo, he decided fiercely, until he had a decent position and hadreestablished himself in civilian life.
Over at the news-stand a girl was fitting picture post-cards into arack. Kenwick walked over to her and with a part of the change left fromhis meager breakfast bought a morning paper. While she picked it off thepile he stood twirling the
circular rack absently with one hand. TheCliff House, Golden Gate Park, and prominent business blocks whirledpast his eyes, but he was not conscious of them. He took his newspaperand turned away.
Halfway to the door he opened it and glanced at the sensational menuspread out for his delectation upon the front page. All at oncesomething inside his brain seemed to crumple up. The Cliff House, GoldenGate Park, and tall office-buildings sped around him in a circle, like amerry-go-round gone mad. Somehow he found his way back to the cornerseat and sank into it. And there he sat like a stone man, staring at,but no longer seeing, the front page of his newspaper.
The Rest Hollow Mystery Page 6