The Mardi Gras Mystery

by H. Bedford-Jones

  CHAPTER IX

  _On The Bayou_

  At three o'clock in the morning a great office building is not the mostdesolate place on earth, perhaps; but it approaches very closely to thatdefinition.

  At three o'clock on the morning of Ash Wednesday the great white MaisonBlanche building was deserted and desolate, so far as its offices wereconcerned. The cleaners and scrub-women had long since finished theirtasks and departed. Out in the streets the tag-ends of carnival wererunning on a swiftly ebbing tide. A single elevator in the building was,however, in use. A single suite of offices, with carefully drawn blinds,was lighted and occupied.

  They were not ornate, these offices. They consisted of two rooms, asmall reception room and a large private office, both lined to theceiling with books, chiefly law books. In the large inner room weresitting three men. One of the three, Ben Chacherre, sat in a chairtipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. From time to time heopened those sparkling black eyes of his, and through narrow-slittedlids directed keen glances at the other two men.

  One of the men was the chief of police. The second was Jachin Fell,whose offices these were.

  "Even if things are as you say, which I don't doubt at all," said thechief, slowly, "I can't believe the boy did it! And darn it all, if Ipinch him there's goin' to be a hell of a scandal!"

  Fell shrugged his shoulders, and made response in his toneless voice:

  "Chief, you're up against facts. Those facts are bound to come out andthe newspapers will nail your hide to the wall in a minute. You've abare chance to save yourself by taking in young Maillard at once."

  The chief chewed hard on his cigar. "I don't want to save myself byputting the wrong man behind the bars," he returned. "It sure looks likehe was the Masquer all the while, but you say that he wasn't. You saythis was his only job--a joke that turned out bad."

  "Those are the facts," said Fell. "I don't want to accuse a man ofcrimes I know he did not commit. We have the best of evidence that hedid commit this crime. If the newspapers fasten the entire MidnightMasquer business on him, as they're sure to do, we can't very well helpit. I have no sympathy for the boy."

  "Of course he did it," put in Ben Chacherre, sleepily. "Wasn't he caughtwith the goods?"

  The others paid no heed. The chief indicated two early editions of themorning papers, which lay on the desk in front of Fell. These paperscarried full accounts of the return of the Midnight Masquer's loot,explaining his robberies as part of a carnival jest.

  "The later editions, comin' out now," said the chief, "will crowd allthat stuff off the front page with the Maillard murder. Darn it, Fell!Whether I believe it or not, I'll have to arrest the young fool."

  Chacherre chuckled. Jachin Fell smiled faintly.

  "Nothing could be plainer, chief," he responded. "First, Bob Maillardcomes to us in front of the opera house, and talks about a great jokethat he's going to spring on his friends across the way----"

  "How'd you know who he was?" interjected the chief, shrewdly.

  "Gramont recognized him; Ansley and I confirmed the recognition. He wasmore or less intoxicated--chiefly more. Now, young Maillard was not inthe room at the moment of the murder--unless he was the Masquer. Fiveminutes afterward he was found in a near-by room, hastily changing outof an aviator's uniform into his masquerade costume. Obviously, he hadassumed the guise of the Masquer as a joke on his friends, and the jokehad a tragic ending. Further, he was in the aviation service during thewar, and so had the uniform ready to hand. You couldn't make anybodybelieve that he hasn't been the Masquer all the time!"

  "Of course," and the chief nodded perplexedly. "It'd be a clearcase--only you call me in and say that he _wasn't_ the Masquer! Damn it,Fell, this thing has my goat!"

  "What's Maillard's story?" struck in Ben Chacherre.

  "He denies the whole thing," said the worried chief. "According to hisstory, which sounded straight the way he tells it, he meant to pull offthe joke on his friends and was dressing in the Masquer's costume whenhe heard the shots. He claims that the shots startled him and made himchange back. He swears that he had not entered the other room at all,except in his masquerade clothes. He says the murderer must have beenthe real Masquer. It's likely enough, because all young Maillard's crowdknew about the party that was to be held in that room during the Comusball----"

  "No matter," said Fell, coldly. "Chief, this is an open and shut case;the boy was bound to lie. That he killed his father was an accident, ofcourse, but none the less it did take place."

  "The boy's a wreck this minute." The chief held a match to his unlightedcigar. "But you say that he ain't the original Masquer?"

  "No!" Fell spoke quickly. "The original Masquer was another person, andhad nothing to do with the present case. This information isconfidential and between ourselves."

  "Oh, of course," assented the chief. "Well, I suppose I got to pullMaillard, but I hate to do it. I got a hunch that he ain't the rightparty."

  "Virtuous man!" Fell smiled thinly. "According to all the books, thechief of police is only too glad to fasten the crime on anybody----"

  "Books be damned!" snorted the chief, and leaned forward earnestly."Look here, Fell! Do you believe in your heart that Maillard killed hisfather?"

  Fell was silent a moment under that intent scrutiny.

  "From the evidence, I am forced against my will to believe it," he saidat last. "Of course, he'll be able to prove that he was not the Masqueron previous occasions; his alibis will take care of that. Up to thepoint of the murder, his story is all right. And, my friend, there is achance--a very slim, tenuous chance--that his entire story is true. Inthat case, another person must have appeared as the Masquer which seemsunlikely----"

  "Or else," put in Ben Chacherre, smoothly, "the real original Masquershowed up!"

  There was an instant of silence. Jachin Fell regarded his henchman withsteady gray eyes. Ben Chacherre met the look with almost a trace ofdefiance. The chief frowned darkly.

  "Yes," said the chief. "That's the size of it, Fell. You're keepin'quiet about the name of the real Masquer; why?"

  "Because," said Fell, calmly, "I happen to know that he was in theauditorium at the time of the murder."

  Again silence. Ben Chacherre stared at Fell, with amazement andadmiration in his gaze. "When the master lies, he lies magnificently!"he murmured in French.

  "Well," and the chief gestured despairingly, "I guess that lets out thereal Masquer, eh?"

  "Exactly," assented Fell. "No use dragging his name into it. I'll keepat work on this, chief, and if anything turns up to clear youngMaillard, I'll be very glad."

  "All right," grunted the chief, and rose. "I'll be on my way."

  He departed. Neither Fell nor Chacherre moved or spoke for a space. Whenat length the clang of the elevator door resounded through the desertedcorridors Ben Chacherre slipped from his chair and went to the outerdoor. He glanced out into the hall, closed the door, and with a nodreturned to his chair.

  "Well?" Jachin Fell regarded him with intent, searching eyes. "Have youany light to throw on the occasion?"

  Chacherre's usual air of cool impudence was never in evidence when hetalked with Mr. Fell.

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "Hammond worked on the car until aboutnine o'clock, then beat it to bed, I guess. I quit the job at ten, andhis light had been out some time. Well, master, this is a queer affair!There's no doubt that Gramont pulled it, eh?"

  "You think so?" asked Fell.

  Chacherre made a gesture of assent. "_Quand bois tombe, cabrimonte_--when the tree falls, the kid can climb it! Any fool can see thatGramont was the man. Don't you think so yourself, master?"

  Jachin Fell nodded.

  "Yes. But we've no evidence--everything lies against young Maillard.Early in the morning Gramont goes to Paradis to examine that land ofMiss Ledanois' along the bayou. He'll probably say nothing of thismurder to Hammond, and the chauffeur may not find out about it unt
il aday or two--they get few newspapers down there.

  "Drive down to Paradis in the morning, Ben; get into touch with Hammond,and discover what time Gramont got home to-night. Write me what you findout. Then take charge of things at the Gumberts place. Make sure thatevery car is handled right. A headquarters man from Mobile will be hereto-morrow to trace the Nonpareil Twelve that Gramont now owns."

  Chacherre whistled under his breath. "What?"

  Jachin Fell smiled slightly and nodded. "Yes. If Gramont remains atParadis, I may send him on down there--I'm not sure yet. I intend to getsomething on that man Hammond."

  "But you can't land him that way, master! He bought the car----"

  "And who sold the car to the garage people? They bought it innocently."A peculiar smile twisted Fell's lips awry. "In fact, they bought it froma man named Hammond, as the evidence will show very clearly."

  Ben Chacherre started, since he had sold that car himself. Then a slowgrin came into his thin features--a grin that widened into a noiselesslaugh.

  "Master, you are magnificent!" he said, and rose. "Well, if there isnothing further on hand, I shall go to bed."

  "An excellent programme," said Jachin Fell, and took his hat from thedesk. "I must get some sleep myself."

  They left the office and the building together.

  Three hours afterward the dawn had set in--a cold, gray, and dismal dawnthat rose upon a city littered with the aftermath of carnival. "LeanWednesday" it was, in sober fact. Thus far, the city in general wasignorant of the tragedy which had taken place at the very conclusion ofits gayest carnival season. Within a few hours business and socialcircles would be swept by the fact of Joseph Maillard's murder, but atthis early point of the day the city slept. The morning papers, whichto-day carried a news story that promised to shock and stun the entirecommunity, were not yet distributed.

  Rising before daylight, Henry Gramont and Hammond breakfasted early andwere off by six in the car. They were well outside town and sweeping ontheir way to Terrebonne Parish and the town of Paradis before theyrealized that the day was not going to brighten appreciably. Instead, itremained very cloudy and gloomy, with a chill threat of rain in the air.

  Weather mattered little to Gramont. When finally the excellent highwaywas left behind, and they started on the last lap of their seventy-mileride, they found the parish roads execrable and the going slow. Thus,noon was at hand when they at length pulled into Paradis, the townclosest to Lucie Ledanois' bayou land. The rain was still holding off.

  "Too cold to rain," observed Gramont. "Let's hit for the hotel and getsomething to eat. I'll have to locate the land, which is somewhere neartown."

  They discovered the hotel to be an ancient structure, and boastingprices worthy of Lafitte and his buccaneers. As in many small towns ofLouisiana, however, the food proved fit for a king. After a lightluncheon of quail, crayfish bisque, and probably illegal venison,Gramont sighed regret that he could eat no more, and set about inquiringwhere the Ledanois farm lay.

  There was very little, indeed, to Paradis, which lay on the bayou butwell away from the railroad. It was a desolate spot, unpainted andunkept. The parish seat of Houma had robbed it of all life and growth onthe one hand; on the other, the new oil and gas district had not yettouched it.

  Southward lay the swamp--fully forty miles of it, merging by degreesinto the Gulf. Forty miles of cypress marsh and winding bayou,uncharted, unexplored save by occasional hunters or semi-occasionalsheriffs. No man knew who or what might be in those swamps, and no onecared to know. The man who brought in fish or oysters in his skiff mightbe a bayou fisherman, and he might be a murderer wanted in ten states.Curiosity was apt to prove extremely unhealthy. Like the Atchafalaya,where chance travellers find themselves abruptly ordered elsewhere, theTerrebonne swamps have their own secrets and know how to keep them.

  Gramont had no difficulty in locating the Ledanois land, and he foundthat it was by no means in the swamp. A part of it, lying closer toHouma, had been sold and was now included in the new oil district; itwas this portion which Joseph Maillard had sold off.

  The remainder, and the largest portion, lay north of Paradis and ranalong the west bank of the bayou for half a mile. A long-abandoned farm,it was high ground, with the timber well cleared off and excellentlylocated; but tenants were hard to get and shiftless when obtained, sothat the place had not been farmed for the last five years or more.After getting these facts, Gramont consulted with Hammond.

  "We'd better buy some grub here in town and arrange to stay a couple ofnights on the farm, if necessary," he said. "There are some buildingsthere, so we'll find shelter. Along the bayou are summer cottages--Ibelieve some of them are rather pretentious places--and we ought to findthe road pretty decent. It's only three or four miles out of town."

  With some provisions piled in the car, they set forth. The road woundalong the bayou side, past ancient 'Cajun farms and the squat homes offishermen. Here and there had been placed camps and summer cottages,nestling amid groups of huge oaks and cypress, whose fronds ofsilver-gray moss hung in drooping clusters like pale and ghostlyshrouds.

  Watching the road closely, Gramont suddenly found the landmarks that hadbeen described to him, and ordered Hammond to stop and turn in at a gapin the fence which had once been an entrance gate.

  "Here we are! Those are the buildings off to the right. Whew! I shouldsay it had been abandoned! Nothing much left but ruins. Go ahead!"

  Before them, as they drove in from the road by a grass-covered drive,showed a house, shed, and barn amid a cluster of towering trees. Indeed,trees were everywhere about the farm, which had grown up in a regularsapling forest. The buildings were in a ruinous state--clapboardshanging loosely, roofs dotted by gaping holes, doors and windows longsince gone.

  Leaving the car, Gramont, followed by the chauffeur, went to the frontdoorway and surveyed the wreckage inside.

  "What do you say, Hammond? Think we can stop here, or go back to thehotel? It's not much of a run to town----"

  Hammond pointed to a wide fireplace facing them.

  "I can get this shack cleaned out in about half an hour--this one room,anyhow. When we get a fire goin' in there, and board up the windows anddoors, we ought to be comfortable enough. But suit yourself, cap'n! It'syour funeral."

  Gramont laughed. "All right. Go ahead and clean up, then, and if raincomes down we can camp here. Be sure and look for snakes and vermin. Thefloor seems sound, and if there's plenty of moss on the trees, we canmake up comfortable beds. Too bad you're not a fisherman, or we mightget a fresh fish out of the bayou----"

  "I got some tackle in town," and Hammond grinned widely.

  "Good work! Then make yourself at home and go to it. We've most of theafternoon before us."

  Gramont left the house, and headed down toward the bayou shore.

  He took a letter from his pocket, opened it, and glanced over it anew.It was an old letter, one written him nearly two years previously byLucie Ledanois. It had been written merely in the endeavour to distractthe thoughts of a wounded soldier, to bring his mind to Louisiana, awayfrom the stricken fields of France. In the letter Lucie had describedsome of the more interesting features of Bayou Terrebonne--the oysterand shrimp fleets, the Chinese and Filipino villages along the Gulf, thefar-spread cypress swamps; the bubbling fountains, natural curiosities,that broke up through the streams and bayous of the whole wideparish--fountains that were caused by gas seeping up from the earth'sinterior, and breaking through.

  Gramont knew that plans were already afoot to tap this field of naturalgas and pipe it to New Orleans. Oil had been found, too, and all thestate was now oil-mad. Fortunes were being made daily, and otherfortunes were being lost daily by those who dealt with oil-stocksinstead of with oil.

  "Those gas-fountains did the work!" reflected Gramont. "And according tothis letter, there's one of those fountains here in the bayou, close toher property. 'Just opposite the dock,' she says. The first thing is tofind the dock, then the fountain. After that, w
e'll decide if it's truemineral gas. If it is, then the work's done--for I'll sure take a chanceon finding oil near it!"

  Gramont came to the bayou and began searching his way along the thickand high fringe of bushes and saplings that girded the water's edge.Presently he came upon the ruined evidences of what had once been asmall boat shed. Not far from this he found the dock referred to in theletter; nothing was left of it except a few spiles protruding from thesurface of the water. But he had no need to look farther. Directlybefore him, he saw that which he was seeking.

  A dozen feet out from shore the water was rising and falling in acontinuous dome or fountain of highly charged bubbles that rose a footabove the surface. Gramont stared at it, motionless. He watched it for aspace--then, abruptly, he started. It was a violent start, a start ofsheer amazement and incredulity.

  He leaned forward, staring no longer at the gas dome, but at the watercloser inshore. For a moment he thought that his senses had deceivedhim, then he saw that the thing was there indeed, there beyond anydoubt--a very faint trace of iridescent light that played over thesurface of the water.

  "It can't be possible!" he muttered, bending farther over. "Such a thinghappens too rarely----"

  His heart pounded violently; excitement sent the blood rushing to hisbrain in blinding swirls. He was gripped by the gold fever that comesupon a man when he makes the astounding discovery of untold wealth lyingat his feet, passed over and disregarded by other and less-discerningmen for days and years!

  It was oil, no question about it. An extremely slight quantity, true; soslight a quantity that there was no film on the water, no discernibletaste to the water. Gramont brought it to his mouth and rose, shakinghis head.

  Where did it come from? It had no connection with the gas bubbles--atleast, it did not come from the dome of water and gas. How long he stoodthere staring Gramont did not know. His brain was afire with thepossibilities. At length he stirred into action and started up the bayoubank, from time to time halting to search the water below him, to makesure that he could still discern the faint iridescence.

  He followed it rod by rod, and found that it rapidly increased instrength. It must come from some very tiny surface seepage close athand, that was lost in the bayou almost as rapidly as it came from theearth-depths. Only accidentally would a man see it--not unless he weresearching the water close to the bank, and even then only by the graceof chance.

  Suddenly Gramont saw that he had lost the sign. He halted.

  No, not lost, either! Just ahead of him was a patch of reeds, and arecession of the shore. He advanced again. Inside the reeds he found theoily smear, still so faint that he could only detect it at certainangles. Glancing up, he could see a fence at a little distance,evidently the boundary fence of the Ledanois land; the bushes and treesthinned out here, and on ahead was cleared ground. He saw, through thebushes, glimpses of buildings.

  Violent disappointment seized him. Was he to lose this discovery, afterall? Was he to find that the seepage came from ground belonging tosomeone else? No--he stepped back hastily, barely in time to avoidstumbling into a tiny trickle of water, a rivulet that ran down into thebayou, a tributary so insignificant that it was invisible ten feetdistant! And on the surface a faint iridescence.

  Excitement rising anew within him, Gramont turned and followed thisrivulet, his eyes aflame with eagerness. It led him for twenty feet, andceased abruptly, in a bubbling spring that welled from a patch of low,tree-enclosed land. Gramont felt his feet sinking in grass, and saw thatthere was a dip in the ground hereabouts, a swampy little section all toitself. He picked a dry spot and lay down on his face, searching thewater with his eyes.

  Moment after moment he lay there, watching. Presently he found theslight trickle of oil again--a trickle so faint and slim that even here,on the surface of the tiny rivulet, it could be discerned only withgreat difficulty. A very thin seepage, concluded Gramont; a thin oil, ofcourse. So faint a little thing, to mean so much!

  It came from the Ledanois land, no doubt of it. What did that matter,though? His eyes widened with flaming thoughts as he gazed down at theslender thread of water. No matter at all where this came from--the mainpoint was proven by it! There was oil here for the finding, oil down inthe thousands of feet below, oil so thick and abundant that it forceditself up through the earth fissures to find an outlet!

  "Instead of going down five or six thousand feet," he thought,exultantly, "we may have to go down only as many hundred. But first wemust get an option or a lease on all the land roundabout--all we cansecure! There will be a tremendous boom the minute this news breaks. Ifwe get those options, we can sell them over again at a million per cent.profit, and even if we don't strike oil in paying quantities, we'llregain the cost of our drilling! And to think of the years this has beenhere, waiting for someone----"

  Suddenly he started violently. An abrupt crashing of feet among thebushes, an outbreak of voices, had sounded not far away--just the otherside of the boundary fence. He was wakened from his dreams, and startedto rise. Then he relaxed his muscles and lay quiet, astonishment seizinghim; for he heard his own name mentioned in a voice that was strange tohim.