by Andre Norton
“What does?” asked Ricky.
“It is such a tangle,” he said, running his hand through his short, gray-streaked hair. “A tangle such as lawyers are supposed to delight in. But they don’t, I assure you that they don’t, Miss Ralestone. Not if they have their client’s interest at heart. You know, of course, of the missing Ralestone—Roderick?”
Ricky and Val both nodded. Mr. LeFleur spread out his plump hands in a queer little gesture as if he were pushing something away. “This whole unfortunate business begins with him. As far as we know today, he and his brother were co-owners of Pirate’s Haven. When young Roderick disappeared, he was still part owner. Although he was presumed dead, he was never lawfully declared so. Pirate’s Haven was simply assumed to be the property of your branch of the family.”
“Our branch of the family?” Val echoed him. “Do you mean that some descendant of Roderick has appeared to put in a claim?”
“That is the problem. Three days ago a man came to my office. He said that he is the direct descendant of Roderick Ralestone and that he can produce proof of that fact.”
“And he wants his share of the estate?” asked Ricky shrewdly.
“Yes.”
“He can keep on wanting,” Val said shortly. “We’ve nothing to give.”
“There’s Pirate’s Haven,” pointed out Mr. LeFleur.
“But he can’t—” Ricky’s hand closed about her brother’s wrist.
“Naturally he can’t take it,” Val assured her hotly. “Pirate’s Haven is ours. This looks to me like blackmail. He’ll threaten to stir up a lot of trouble unless we buy him off.”
Mr. LeFleur nodded. “That is perhaps the motive behind it all.”
“Well,” Val forced a laugh, “then he loses. We haven’t the money to buy him off.”
“Neither have you the money to fight a case through the courts, Mr. Valerius,” answered the lawyer soberly.
“But there is some chance, there must be!” urged Ricky.
“I submitted the full case to Mr. John Stanton yesterday—Mr. Stanton is our local authority on cases of this type. He has informed me that there is a single ray of hope. Frankly, I find this claimant a dubious person, but a shrewd one. He knows that he has the advantage now, but should we gain the upper hand, we could, I believe, rid ourselves of him. Our chance lies in the past. This was first a French and then a Spanish colony. Under both rules the law of primogeniture sometimes held force. That is, an estate passed to the eldest son of a family. Your estate was such a one. In fact, we possess in this very office old charters and papers which state that the property was entailed after the European custom. If that were so, the courts might declare that the elder of the twins born in 1788 was the sole owner of Pirate’s Haven.
“But which of the twin brothers was the elder? You will say at once, Richard. But your rival will say Roderick. And there is no proof. For in the spring, two months after the birth of the boys, most of the family papers were destroyed in the great fire which almost wiped out the city and burned the Ralestone town house. There is no birth record in existence. I appealed to your brother to return to me these papers which Miles Ralestone took north with him after the war. You returned them today but there was nothing in them of any value to this case.
“However, if you can find such proof, that Richard Ralestone was the elder and thus the legal heir under the laws of Spain, then we shall have a solid fact upon which to base our fight.”
“There is such a proof,” began Ricky slowly.
“What? Where?” demanded Mr. LeFleur.
“Don’t you remember, Val,” she turned to him, “what Rupert said about the Luck last night—that the names of the heirs were engraved upon its blade? We’ll have to find the Luck! We’ll just have to!”
“But Roderick took the Luck with him. And if it’s still in existence, this rival will have it now,” her brother reminded her.
“Yes, of course, I was forgetting—” her voice trailed off into silence and Val stared at her with a dropped jaw. Such a quick change of manner was totally unlike Ricky. “Yes,” she repeated slowly and distinctly, “I guess we’re the losers—”
“For Pete’s sake—” he began hotly and then he saw her hand making furious motions in his direction from behind the screen of her large purse. “Well, I suppose we are in a hole.” He managed to mend his tone a fraction. “Rupert will probably be in to see you tomorrow, Mr. LeFleur.”
“It would be well for him to become acquainted with the whole matter as quickly as possible,” agreed the unhappy Creole. “You may tell Mr. Ralestone that I am, of course, having this claimant thoroughly investigated. We shall have to wait and see. Time is a big factor,” he murmured as if to himself.
Ricky smiled brightly. There was a sort of eagerness about her, as if she were wild to be off. “Then we’ll say good-bye for the present, Mr. LeFleur. And may I mention again how much we have appreciated your thoughtfulness?”
René LeFleur aroused himself. “But it was a pleasure, a very great pleasure, Miss Ralestone. You are returning to Pirate’s Haven now?”
“Well—” she hesitated. Mystified at what lay behind her unexplainable actions, Val could only stand and listen. “We did have some errands. Of course, this news—”
LeFleur gestured widely. “But it will come all right. It must. There are papers somewhere.”
Firmly Ricky broke away from more protracted farewells. As the Ralestones turned out of the courtyard into which their host had conducted them, Val matched his step with hers.
“Well? What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“We had an eavesdropper.”
Val stopped short. “What do you mean?”
“I was facing the door to the balcony. There was the shadow of a head on the floor. When you spoke about Rick having the sword, it went away—the shadow, I mean. But someone had been listening and now he knows about the Luck and what it means to us.”
Aiming a kick at the nearest tire of the roadster, Val regarded the mud-stained rubber moodily. “Fine mess!”
“Yes, isn’t it? And there seems to be no loose end to the thing,” Ricky protested. “It’s like holding a big tangle of wool and being told to have it all straightened out before night—the plot of a fairy-tale. We have so many odd sections but no ends. There’s that boy in the garden this morning who said that he has as much right at Pirate’s Haven as we have, and then there’s that handkerchief, and now this man who claims half the estate—”
“And our mysterious listener,” finished her brother. “What shall we do now? Go home?”
“No. We might as well do the errands.” She seated herself in the car. “Val—”
“Yes?”
“I know one thing.” She leaned toward him and her eyes shone green as they did when she was excited or greatly troubled. “We aren’t going to let go of our tangle until we do find an end. We are the Ralestones of Pirate’s Haven and we are going to continue to be the Ralestones of Pirate’s Haven.”
“In spite of the enemy? I agree.” Val stepped on the starter. “You know, a hundred years ago there would have been a very simple remedy for this rival-claimant business.”
“What?”
“Pistols for two—coffee for one. Rupert or I would have met him out at the dueling oaks and that would have been the end of him.”
“Or you. But dueling—here!”
“Very common. The finest fencing masters on the North American continent plied their trade here. Why, one, Pepe Llula, the most famous duelist of his time, became the guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored, he could have some place to bury his opponents.
“Then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we might have had him voodooed, had we lived back in the good old days. Paid that voodoo queen—what was her name? Marie something or other—to put a curse on him so he’d just wither
away.”
“And serve him right, too.” Ricky stared straight before her. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’m not going to give up Pirate’s Haven without a fight. It’s—it’s the first real home we’ve ever had. Rupert’s older; he’s spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not mean so much to him. But you and I, Val—You know what it’s been like! Schools, and spending the holidays with aunts or in those frightful camps, never getting a chance to be together. We can’t—we just can’t have this only to lose it again. We can’t!” her voice broke.
“So we won’t.”
“Val, when you say things like that, I can almost believe them. If—if we do lose, let’s stick together this time. Promise?” her voice lifted in an effort toward lightness.
“I promise. After this it will be the two of us together. Do you know, I’ve never really had a chance to get acquainted with my very good-looking sister.”
She laughed. “I can’t very well curtsy while sitting down in here, but ‘thank yuh for them purty words, stranger.’ And now for the express station. Then you are to stop at the Southeastern News Association headquarters for something of Rupert’s and—”
The afternoon went quickly enough. They despatched the rest of their possessions from the express station to Pirate’s Haven, went on a round of miscellaneous shopping, picked up a weighty box at the News Association, and ended up at five o’clock by visiting that institution of New Orleans, a coffee-house. Ricky was earnestly peeking into one of her ten or so small bags. They had parked the car and Val complained that he had become a sort of packhorse, and anything but patient one.
“What if your feet do hurt,” his sister said wearily as she closed the bag and reached for another. “So do mine. These sidewalks feel like red-hot iron. I’ll bet I could do one of those fakir tricks where you’re supposed to walk over red-hot plowshares.”
“Not only my feet but also my backbone is protesting. Whether you have reached the end of that Anthony Adverse of a shopping list or not, we’re going home! And what are you looking for? You’ve opened all those bags at least twice and dropped no less than three on the floor each time,” he snapped irritably.
“My pralines. I’m sure I gave them to you to carry. I’ve heard of New Orleans pralines all my life, so I got some today and now they’ve disappeared.”
“They were probably included in that last arm-load of parcels I stowed in the car. Are you through?”
Ricky looked into her coffee-cup. “It’s empty, so I guess I am. Where is the car? I’m so lost I don’t know where we are now.”
“We left it about three blocks away on the sunny side of the street,” Val informed her with the relish of one who is thoroughly tired of his present existence. “If this is your usual behavior on a shopping trip, Rupert may bring you in the next time. Half an hour to choose a toothbrush-mug in the ten-cent store!”
“For a person who spends a good fifteen minutes matching a tie and a handkerchief,” sniffed Ricky as she rose, “you’re in a hurry to criticize others.”
“Come on!” her brother almost howled as he scooped up the packages.
“Anyway, we won’t have to get supper or wash the dishes or anything.” She pulled off her hat as she settled herself in the car. “It’s so beastly hot, but it’ll be cooler at home. Do you suppose we could go swimming in the bayou?”
“I don’t see why not.” Val guided the roadster into a side street. “Where’s that map of the city? We’ve got to see how to get back on to North Rampart from here.”
“I’ll look.” Ricky bent her head and so she did not see the two figures walking close together and so rapt in conversation that the one on the curb side brushed against a lamp-post.
Now just what, considered Val, was the slim young clerk from Mr. LeFleur’s office telling that red-faced man in the too-snug suit? He would have liked to have overheard a word or two. Perhaps he had become unduly suspicious but—he had his doubts.
“We turn left at the next corner,” said Ricky.
Val changed gears and drove on.
CHAPTER V
THEIR TENANT DISCOVERS THE RALESTONES
Val stood on the small ornamental bridge pitching twigs down into the tiny garden brook. A moody frown creased his forehead. Under his feet lay a pair of pruning-shears he had borrowed from Sam with the intention of doing something about the jungle which surrounded Pirate’s Haven on three sides. That is, he had intended doing something, but now—
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“Lady,” he answered dismally without turning around, “you can have a bushel of them for less than that.”
“There is a neat expression which describes you beautifully at this moment,” commented Ricky as she came up beside her brother. “Have you ever heard of a ‘sour puss’?”
“Several times. Oh, what’s the use!” Val kicked at a long twig. A warm wind brought in its hold the heavy scent of flowering bushes and trees. His shirt clung to his shoulders damply. It was hot even in the shade of the oaks. Rupert had gone to town to see LeFleur and hear the worst, so that Pirate’s Haven, save for themselves and Letty-Lou, was deserted.
“Come on,” Ricky’s arm slid through his, “let’s explore. Think of it—we’ve been here two whole days and we don’t know yet what our back yard looks like. Rupert says that our land runs clear down into the swamp. Let’s go see.”
“But I was going to—” He made a feeble beginning toward stooping for the pruning-shears.
“Val Ralestone, nobody can work outdoors in this heat, and you know it. Now come on. Bring those with you and we’ll leave them in the carriage house as we pass it. You know,” she continued as they went along the path, “the trouble with us is that we haven’t enough to do. What we need is a good old-fashioned job.”
“I thought we were going to be treasure hunters,” he protested laughingly.
“That’s merely a side-line. I’m talking about the real thing, something which will pay us cash money on Saturday nights or thereabout.”
“Well, we can both use a typewriter fairly satisfactorily,” Val offered. “But as you are the world’s worst speller and I am apt to become entangled in my commas, I can’t see us the shining lights of any efficient office. And while we’ve had expensive educations, we haven’t had practical ones. So what do we do now?”
“We sit down and think of one thing we’re really good at doing and then—Val, what is that?” She pointed dramatically at a mound of brick overgrown with vines. To their right and left stretched a row of tumble-down cabins, some with the roofs totally gone and the doors fallen from the hinges.
“The old plantation bake oven, I should say. This must be what’s left of the slave quarters. But where’s the carriage house?”
“It must be around the other side of the big house. Let’s try that direction anyway. But I think you’d better go first and do some chopping. This dress may be a poor thing but it’s my own and likely to be for some time to come. And short of doing a sort of snake act, I don’t see how we’re going to get through there.”
Val applied the shears ruthlessly to vine and bush alike, glad to find something to attack. The weight of his depression was still upon him. It was all very well for Ricky to talk so lightly of getting a job, but talk would never put butter on their bread—if they could afford bread.
“You certainly have done a fine job of ruining that!”
Val surpassed Ricky’s jump by a good inch. By the old bake oven stood a woman. A disreputable straw hat with a raveled brim was pulled down over her untidy honey-colored hair and she was rolling up the sleeves of a stained smock to bare round brown arms.
“It’s very plain to the eye that you’re no gardener,” she continued pleasantly. “And may I ask who you are and what you are doing here? This place is not open to trespassers, you know.”
“We did think we
would explore,” answered Ricky meekly. “You see, this all belongs to my brother.” She swept her hand about in a wide circle.
“And just who is he?”
“Rupert Ralestone of Pirate’s Haven.”
“Good—!” Their questioner’s hand flew to cover her mouth, and at the comic look of dismay which appeared on her face, Ricky’s laugh sounded. A moment later the stranger joined in her mirth.
“And here I thought that I was being oh so helpful to an absent landlord,” she chuckled. “And this brother of yours is my landlord!”
“How—? Why, we didn’t know that.”
“I’ve rented your old overseer’s house and am using it for my studio. By the way, introductions are in order, I believe. I am Charity Biglow, from Boston as you might guess. Only beans and the Bunker Hill Monument are more Boston than the Biglows.”
“I’m Richanda Ralestone and this is my brother Valerius.”
Miss Biglow grinned cheerfully at Val. “That won’t do, you know; too romantic by far. I once read a sword-and-cloak romance in which the hero answered to the name of Valerius.”
“I haven’t a cloak nor a sword and my friends generally call me Val, so I hope I’m acceptable,” he grinned back at her.
“Indeed you are—both of you. And what are you doing now?”
“Trying to find a building known as the carriage house. I’m beginning to believe that its existence is wholly mythical,” Val replied.
“It’s over there, simply yards from the direction in which you’re heading. But suppose you come and visit me instead. Really, as part landlords, you should be looking into the condition of your rentable property.”