The Rest Hollow Mystery

by Rebecca N. Porter

  CHAPTER VIII

  The editor of the "San Francisco Clarion" tilted his chair far back andlook quizzically at the young man sitting beside his desk. "Sure Iremember you," he remarked. "Did some Sunday work for us some time ago,didn't you?"

  "Yes, a little feature stuff when I was in college."

  "And now you want to go it strong, eh? Well, we've been ratherdisorganized in here since the war. There's been a constant stream ofreporters coming and going. But things are settling down a little nowand we're not taking on anybody who doesn't want to stick. Planning tobe in the city right along, are you?"

  "Well, I'll be perfectly frank with you about that. I'm not. I've got togo East as soon as I get a little money. But I'm not planning to staythere. I'm coming back for good as soon as I've closed up my business."

  "Why not close up the Eastern business first?"

  "Can't. It's not ripe yet." There was a note of grimness in the youngman's voice. "I don't know just when it will be, either. But when I dogo back, I don't think it will take me long to finish it. Don't give mea reporter's job if I don't look good to you. Put me on to some featurestuff for a while."

  "All right. Sit in, and I'll give you a line on a few things I'd like tohave hunted down."

  When he left the office half an hour later, Kenwick sought the publiclibrary. There he spent the entire afternoon and a part of the evening.It was about nine o'clock when he entered the St. Germaine, a modesthotel in the uptown district. The night clerk cast an inquiring glancein search of his suit-case.

  "My baggage hasn't come yet," the prospective guest explainedtranquilly. "It may be in to-morrow. If you want to know anything aboutme, call Allen Boyer at the 'Clarion' office."

  When he had been shown to his room on the fifth floor he lighted thelamp on the stand near his bed and became absorbed in the contents ofone of the weekly magazines. He read until very late and then snappedout the light, cursing himself for having abused his eyes on the eve oftaking a new position.

  The next morning he was out early, eager to hunt down one of the storiesthat Boyer had suggested. As he swung out into the exhilaration of thecrisp November morning on the scent of an assignment some of the oldself-assurance and buoyancy came back to him.

  Half an hour after he had left the hotel, the revolving doors swunground the circle to admit a man with prosperous leather suit-case and"freckled" eyes. The day clerk handed him a pen and registration-slip.He was beginning to sign, after a curt question about the rates, whenthe blond cashier, perched on a stool in the wire cage adjoining thedesk, pushed a similar slip of paper toward the clerk. "Can't quite makeout that name," she confessed. "Looks like Renwich. Do you get it?"

  The desk official glanced at it with the casually professional air ofone to whom all the mysteries of chirography are as an open book. "It'sKenwick. Plain as day--Roger Kenwick."

  The pen slid from the fingers of the man on the other side of the desk.For a moment, self-possession deserted Richard Glover. He stood therestaring hard at the ugly blot which he had made across his ownsignature. Then he crumpled the bit of paper, threw it into thewaste-basket, and, suit-case in hand, went out into the street.

  The day clerk darted a contemptuous glance after his disappearingfigure. "Some nut," he remarked. "Told me the terms were all right andthen got cold feet. I'll bet he's a crook."

  "Sure he's a crook." The blond cashier spoke with cheerful authority. "Icould have told you that when he first came in. I can size 'em up as faroff as the front door. And I had him posted on the 'Losses by Default'page before he'd set down his bag."

  The day clerk regarded her musingly. "He _had_ a bag, though, and that'smore than this Kenwick fellow showed. But Brown thought he was all rightand let him have 526. Did you notice him this morning? Tall, darkfellow, young but with hair a little gray around the temples."

  "Ye-a. High-brow. Looks like he was here for his health. Probably brokedown in some government job."

  "No, he's a newspaper man."

  "Let's see where he's from?" She reached for the slip.

  "New York. Well, I slipped a cog. I would have said he was a Westerner."

  "That's right. That last chap looked more like New York to me. But younever can tell. And something seemed to hit him all wrong about thisplace."

  With this conclusion Richard Glover was in complete accord. As he walkeddown Geary Street clutching his heavy bag, he was conscious with everynerve of his being that something had struck him decidedly wrong aboutthe St. Germaine. "It might be just a coincidence," he reassuredhimself. "It's undoubtedly just a coincidence but--but that isn't such avery common name. My God! I begin to feel like a spy caught in his owntrap."

  With scarcely more than a glance at the name above the entrance heturned into the lobby of another hotel and signed for a room. It wasalmost noon when he appeared again and wrote a letter at one of thelobby desks. It was not a long letter, hardly more than a note, but itscomposition consumed almost an hour and a half a dozen sheets ofstationery, which were successively torn to bits and thrown into thewaste-basket. And then at last the final sheet met the same fate andRichard Glover sat tapping the desk softly with the edge of the blotter.

  "No, I won't write; I'll just go," he decided. "For asking if I may comealmost invites a refusal. And then it takes longer. I'll go up therethis afternoon. The secret of getting what you want out of people is totake them off guard."

  Following this policy he set out in the late afternoon to pay a call. Atthe door of the uptown address he was met by a colored maid. She offeredhim neither hope nor despair but agreed to present his card.

  And in front of the living-room fire Marcreta Morgan read the card andflicked it across to her brother. "I don't think I care to see anybodyto-day," she said. "It's your first night at home, and there's so muchto talk about."

  "Don't know him," Clinton decided. "Somebody you met while I was away?"

  "Oh, yes, you know him, Clint. You introduced me to him yourself. Don'tyou remember he came here one night before you went to Washington andasked you to analyze some specimens of mineral water."

  "Oh, _that_ fellow! Has he been hanging around here ever since?"

  "Well, no. I can't say that he has hung around exactly. But of late hehas called rather often. He's really quite entertaining in some ways.You were very much interested in his specimens."

  "In his _specimens_, yes."

  It may have been that she resented his implied dislike. It may have beenfor some other reason. But Marcreta suddenly reversed her decision."Show him in, please," she ordered. And the next moment the visitorstood in the doorway.

  It was apparent as he crossed the long room that he had not expected tomeet any one save his hostess. But he responded warmly to Clinton'shandshake and drew up a chair for himself opposite Marcreta. "It's apleasant surprise to find you here, Mr. Morgan," he said. "I thought youwere still in the service at Washington. But it's time for every one tobe getting home now, isn't it?"

  Clinton Morgan surveyed him silently. It struck him that his guest wasvery much at home himself. For a time the conversation followed thatlevel, triangular form of talk which so effectually conceals purpose andpersonality. Then Clinton excused himself on the plea that he had someunpacking to do, and Marcreta and Richard Glover were left alone.

  "It's been a long time since I've seen you, Mr. Glover," she said. "Youhaven't been in the Bay region lately?"

  "No, I've not been able to get away." His tone indicated that he hadchafed under this pressure of adverse circumstance. "But it's good toget back now," he went on. "I'm always glad to get back--here."

  She ignored the new ardent note in his voice. "But the southern part ofthe State is beautiful," she said. "Mont-Mer, particularly, is sobeautiful that it makes the soul ache."

  The words seemed to startle him. His eyes left the camouflaged log ofwood in the fireplace and fixed themselves steadily upon her. "How doyou know? How do you, San Francisco-bound, know?"

  "I have just returned fro
m there. My brother and I arrived home the sameday. I spent a week near Mont-Mer visiting my friends, the Paddingtons.Do you know them?"

  "No. But I think I know their home. They call it 'Utopia,' I believe?"

  "Yes. And until I saw it I had always thought that Utopia was a myth."

  "Mont-Mer," he mused, "does look rather like a fairy-story come true,doesn't it? There's something perilously seductive about it. It's aplace where people go to forget."

  "I have heard that said about it, but somehow it didn't make that kindof an appeal to me. I had the feeling that in such a place as that everysorrow of life is a bleeding wound. There's a terrible cruelty aboutthat tropical sort of beauty. It drives memories in, not out."

  For some unaccountable reason the tensity of her tone annoyed him. "Youdidn't like it then?"

  "It's beautiful, as I have said, but--I shall never go there again."

  "The place you ought to see," he told her, "is Cedargrove, about twohours' trip to the south."

  "That's where the mineral springs are?"

  "Yes. And what I really came to tell you to-day is that I've bought thecontrolling interest in the springs. It was after your brother had givenme his final analysis of the water last year that I decided to do it. Hesaid, you know, that in his opinion the medicinal ingredients equaledthat of the waters of Carlsbad. I've made great plans. You see, thereare twenty acres, and so far we've found eighteen springs. We've beenbottling the stuff for several months now and it's selling like hotcakes. The next step is a hotel. It's not to be too colossal, but uniquein every respect. That's what takes in California. Show people thatyou've got 'something different' and they'll jump to the conclusion thatbecause it's different it must be desirable. That's America. I've hadother chemists besides your brother tell me that the water is wonderful.The best doctors in the South declare that those springs are a biggerfind than a gold mine."

  He had warmed to his theme now and his amber eyes glowed. And shefollowed his words with that quick responsiveness that was allunconsciously one of her chief charms. "And what are your advertisingplans?" she asked.

  It was like a fresh supply of gasolene to an engine. He plunged intostupendous plans for a publicity campaign. "I'm doing most of the copywork myself so far. I love the advertising game. I love telling peoplewhat they want and making them want it. I'm calling it 'The Carlsbad ofAmerica.' That will get the health-seekers, and health-seekers will payany price."

  For half an hour he talked, going into every detail of his plan. Andthen all at once he stopped abruptly as though he had grown suddenlyweary of Carlsbad. She sat gazing into the fire, waiting in sympatheticsilence, for him to resume the subject. But he didn't resume it. When hespoke again, his tone had changed as well as his theme. For the firsttime the conversation became keenly personal. He talked about himselfwith a humility that was quite new and, to his listener, somewhatstartling.

  "I don't think it can be a complete surprise to you," he said, "to knowhow much I need you; how much I depend upon your sympathy andunderstanding. You must have guessed something of my feeling. You aretoo intuitive not to have guessed."

  Her frank, blue-gray eyes were fixed upon him with an expression thatbaffled him, yet gave him hope. "No, it is not quite unexpected," sheadmitted. "But I didn't realize that it had gone quite so far. It seemsto have all happened rather suddenly. We haven't known each other verylong; not nearly long enough for anything like this."

  "No. But I've been looking for you all my life. That ought to count forsomething."

  "For something--yes. But not for so much as--that."

  "Love isn't a matter of time," he told her.

  "No. But it's a matter of exploration. It's a matter of finding eachother. And in the half a dozen times that you have called here, Mr.Glover, we haven't talked about the finding kind of things. No, we don'tknow each other. We don't know each other half well enough to consideranything like this."

  "But we can get to know each other better. Is there any reason why weshould not do that?"

  She pondered this for a moment. "Well, for one thing, there isdistance."

  "There is no longer distance," he pleaded eagerly. "For I have severedmy connections with Mont-Mer."

  "Oh!" He couldn't tell whether the exclamation emanated from pleasure ormerely surprise. "You severed your connections there because of this newCarlsbad plan?"

  "Partly because of that. But chiefly because a secretaryship to a richman doesn't get one anywhere."

  "I suppose not."

  Still he couldn't decide whether her interest now was genuine or onlycourteous. But she would give him no further encouragement than to allowhim to call occasionally. And with this permission he went away wellcontent.

  Ten minutes after he heard the front door close, Clinton, in adressing-gown and slippers, appeared on the threshold of his sister'sroom. "Gone, at last?" he queried. "What's Glover doing up here anyway?I thought he was securely anchored with a millionaire hermit downSouth."

  She spoke without turning from the dressing-table where she was shakingher long dark hair down over an amethyst-colored negligee. "You don'tlike him, do you?"

  "No, I can't say that I do."

  "Why not?"

  Before the directness of the question he felt suddenly shamefaced, as aman always does who condemns one of his own sex before a woman oninsufficient evidence. "Oh, he's all right, of course. I have no reasonreally for disliking the fellow, except----Well, he seems to like youtoo much. And he's not your style. What did he want to-night?"

  "He wanted to tell me about a new scheme he has, a really wonderfulenterprise, Clint, for turning that mineral water place into ahealth-resort. He's taken over most of the stock and he talked glowinglyabout it."

  "He does talk well; I'll admit that. But who is going to capitalize thisventure?"

  His sister smiled. "Well, Clinton, I could hardly ask him that, youknow."

  "No, I suppose not. And if you had, I imagine that he would hardly haveliked to answer it. Anyhow, he's cheered you up, and I ought to begrateful to him for that. It was a mistake for you to take that trip toMont-Mer, Crete. It was too much for you."

  She made no response to this, and her brother, noting the delicatelyflushed face and languid movements, told himself reproachfully that themistake was in going away and leaving her to struggle alone with thehospital venture. He sat down on a cedar chest beside the window.

  "Let's retint the whole lower floor, Crete," he suggested, seizing uponthe first change of topic that offered itself. "Now that this place isto be a home again and not a sanitarium, let's retint and get the publicinstitution smell out of it."

  She laid down the ivory brush and turned to him. But her gaze wasabstracted, and when she spoke in a musing voice, her words showed thatshe had not been listening. "Clinton, have you ever figured out just howmuch of the Coalinga oil stock belongs to me?"

  He had been sitting with one knee hugged between his arms. Now hereleased it and brought himself upright upon the cedar chest.

  "Why, no, I haven't. I don't think it makes much difference, while we'reliving together, sharing everything this way."

  She got up from the dressing-table and walked over to the far window,drawing the deep lace collar of the amethyst negligee up about her earsas though to screen herself from his view. Out on the bay the lightedferry-boats plied their silent passage, and on the Key Route pier anorange-colored train crawled cautiously, like a brilliant caterpillar,across a thread of track. Marcreta, gazing out into the clear soft dusk,sent a question backward over her shoulder.

  "Would it be very much trouble to go over our properties some timeand--make a division?"

  "No, it wouldn't be much trouble, and I suppose it would be much morebusinesslike." He spoke briskly but she knew that her demand hadastonished him. "You know," he admitted ruefully, "I don't pretend to bemuch of a business man. I think you may be right to insist upon anaccounting."

  "O Clint! I don't mean that. You know I don't mean that." Her voice
heldthe stricken tone of the sensitive nature stabbed by the swiftrealization that it has hurt some one else. "You've been the bestbrother a girl ever had. You've been too good to me. I didn't mean_that_ at all."

  "What do you mean then, Crete?"

  Her answer seemed to grope its way through an underbrush of tangledemotions. "I just thought it would be well for us each to know what wehave because--you see, we may not always be living together like this."