Ralestone Luck

by Andre Norton

  “Hello.” The brown face on the pillow did not change expression as Val greeted the swamper. “How do you feel now?”

  “Bettah,” Jeems answered shortly. “Ah’m good but they won’t le’ me up.”

  “The Doc says you’re in for a couple of days,” Val told him.

  Somehow Jeems looked smaller, shrunken, as he lay in that oversized bed. And he had lost that air of indolent arrogance which had made him seem so independent in their swamp and garden meetings. It was as if Val were looking down upon a younger and less confident edition of the swamper he had known.

  “What does he think?” There was urgency in that question.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Yo’ brothah.”

  “Rupert? Why, he’s glad to have you here,” Val answered.

  “Does he know ’bout—”

  Val shook his head.

  “Tell him!” ordered the swamper. “Ah ain’t a-goin’ to stay undah his ruff lessen he knows. ’Tain’t fitten.”

  At this clean-cut statement of the laws of hospitality, Val nodded. “All right. I’ll tell him. But what were you after here, Jeems? I’ll have to tell him that, too, you know. Was it the Civil War treasure?”

  Jeems turned his head slowly. “No.” Again the puzzled frown twisted his straight, finely marked brows. “What do Ah want wi’ treasure? Ah don’t know what Ah was lookin’ fo’. Mah grandpappy—”

  “Val, supper’s ready,” came Rupert’s voice from the hall.

  Val half turned to go. “I’ve got to go now. But I’ll be back later,” he promised.

  “Yo’ll tell him?” Jeems stabbed a finger at the door.

  “Yes; after supper. I promise.”

  With a little sigh Jeems relaxed and burrowed down into the softness of the pillow. “Ah’ll be awaitin’,” he said.

  CHAPTER XIII

  ON SUCH A NIGHT AS THIS—

  It had been on of those dull, weepy days when a sullen drizzle clouded sky and earth. In consequence, the walls and floors of Pirate’s Haven seemed to exude chill. Rupert built a fire in the hall fireplace, but none of the family could say that it was a successful one. It made a nice show of leaping flame accompanied by fancy lighting effects but gave forth absolutely no heat.

  “Val?”

  The boy started guiltily and thrust his note-book under the couch cushion as Charity came in. Tiny drops of rain were strung along the hairs which had blown free of her rain-cape hood like steel beads along a golden wire.

  “Yes? Don’t come here expecting to get warm,” he warned her bitterly. “We are very willing but the fire is weak. Looks pretty, doesn’t it?” He kicked at a charred end on the hearth. “Well, that’s all it’s good for!”

  “Val, what sort of a mess have you and Jeems jumped into?” she asked as she handed him her dripping cape.

  “Oh, just a general sort of mess,” he answered lightly. “Jeems had callers who forgot their manners. So Ricky and I breezed in and brought the party to a sudden end—”

  “As I can see by your black eye,” she commented. “But what has Jeems been up to?”

  Val was suddenly very busy holding her cape before that mockery of a blaze.

  “Why don’t you ask him that?”

  “Because I’m asking you. Rupert came over last night and sat on my gallery making very roundabout inquiries concerning Jeems. I pried out of him the details of your swamp battle. But I want to know now just what Jeems has been doing. Your brother is so vague—”

  “Rupert has the gift of being exasperatingly uncommunicative,” his brother told her. “The story, so far as I know, is short and simple. Jeems knows a secret way into this house. In addition, his grandfather told him that the fortune of the house of Jeems is concealed here—having been very hazy in his description of the nature of said fortune. Consequently, grandson has been playing haunt up and down our halls trying to find it.

  “His story is as full of holes as a sieve but somehow one can’t help believing it. He has explained that he has the secret of the outside entrance only, and not the one opening from the inside. In the meantime he is in bed—guarded from intrusion by Ricky and Lucy with the same care as if he were the crown jewels. So matters rest at present.”

  “Neatly put.” She dropped down on the couch. “By the way, do you realize that you have ruined your face for my uses?”

  Val fingered the crisscrossing tape on his cheek. “This is only temporary.”

  “I certainly hope so. That must have been some battle.”

  “One of our better efforts.” He coughed in mock modesty. “Ricky saved the day with alarms and excursions without. Rupert probably told you that.”

  “Yes, he can be persuaded to talk at times. Is he always so silent?”

  “Nowadays, yes,” he answered slowly. “But when we were younger—You know,” Val turned toward her suddenly, his brown face serious to a degree, “it isn’t fair to separate the members of a family. To put one here and one there and the third somewhere else. I was twelve when Father died, and Ricky was eleven. They sent her off to Great-aunt Rogers because Uncle Fleming, who took me, didn’t care for a girl—”

  “And Rupert?”

  “Rupert—well, he was grown, he could arrange his own life; so he just went away. We got a letter now and then, or a post-card. There was money enough to send us to expensive schools and dress us well. It was two years before I really saw Ricky again. You can’t call short visits on Sunday afternoons seeing anyone.

  “Then Uncle Fleming died and I was simply parked at Great-aunt Rogers’. She”—Val was remembering things, a bitter look about his mouth—“didn’t care for boys. In September I was sent to a military academy. I needed discipline, it seemed. And Ricky was sent to Miss Somebody’s-on-the-Hudson. Rupert was in China then. I got a letter from him that fall. He was about to join some expedition heading into the Gobi.

  “Ricky came down to the Christmas hop at the academy, then Aunt Rogers took her abroad. She went to school in Switzerland a year. I passed from school to summer camp and then back to school. Ricky sent me some carvings for Christmas—they arrived three days late.”

  He stared up at the stone mantel. “Kids feel things a lot more than they’re given credit for. Ricky sent me a letter with some tear stains between the lines when Aunt Rogers decided to stay another year. And that was the year I earned the reputation of being a ‘hard case.’

  “Then Ricky cabled me that she was coming home. I walked out of school the same morning. I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going. Because I had money enough, I thought I would fly. And that, dear lady, is the end of this very sad tale.” He grinned one-sidedly down at her.

  “It was then that—that—”

  “I was smashed up? Yes. And Rupert came home without warning to find things very messy. I was in the hospital when I should have been in some corrective institution, as Aunt Rogers so often told me during those days. Ricky was also in disgrace for speaking her mind, as she does now and then. To make it even more interesting, our guardian had been amusing himself by buying oil stock with our capital. Unfortunately, oil did not exist in the wells we owned. Yes, Rupert had every right to be anything but pleased with the affairs of the Ralestones.

  “He swept us off here where we are still under observation, I believe.”

  “Then you don’t like it here?”

  “Like it? Madam, ‘like’ is a very pallid word. What if you were offered everything you ever wished for, all tied up in pink ribbons and laid on your door-step? What would your reaction be?”

  “So,” she was staring into the fire, “that’s the way of it?”

  “Yes. Or it would be if—” He stooped to reach for another piece of wood. The fire was threatening to die again.

  “What is the flaw in the masterpiece?” she asked quietly.

  “Rupert. He�
�s changed. In the old days he was one of us; now he’s a stranger. We’re amusing to have around, someone to look after, but I have a feeling that to him we don’t really exist. We aren’t real—” Val floundered trying to express that strange, walled-off emotion which so often held him in this grown-up brother’s presence. “Things like this ‘Bluebeard’s Chamber’ of his—that isn’t like the Rupert we knew.”

  “Did you ever think that he might be shy, too?” she asked. “He left two children and came home to find two distrustful adults. Give him his chance—”

  “Charity!” Ricky ran lightly downstairs. “Why didn’t Val tell me you had come?”

  “I just dropped in to inquire concerning your patient.”

  “He’s better-tempered than Val,” declared Ricky shamelessly. “You’ll stay to dinner of course. We’re having some sort of crab dish that Lucy seems to think her best effort. Rupert will be back by then, I’m sure; he’s out somewhere with Sam. There’s been some trouble about trespassers on the swamp lands. Goodness, won’t this rain ever stop?”

  As if in answer to her question, there came a great gust of wind and rain against the door, a blast which shook the oak, thick and solid as it was. And then came the thunder of the knocker which Letty-Lou had polished into shining life only the day before.

  Val opened the door to find Mr. Creighton and Mr. Holmes huddled on the mat. They came in with an eagerness which was only surpassed by Satan, wet and displaying cold anger towards his mistress, whom he passed with a disdainful flirt of his tail as he headed for that deceptive fire.

  “You, again,” observed Charity resignedly as Sam Two was summoned and sent away again draped with wet coats and drenched hats.

  “Man”—Holmes argued with Satan for the possession of the hearth-stone—“when it rains in this country, it rains. A branch of your creek down there is almost over the road—”

  “Bayou, not creek,” corrected Charity acidly. Lately she had shown a marked preference for Holmes’ absence rather than his company.

  “I stand corrected,” he laughed; “a branch of your bayou.”

  “If you found it so unpleasant, why did you—” began Charity, and then she flushed as if she had suddenly realized that that speech was too rude even for her recent attitude.

  “Why did we come?” Holmes’ crooked eyebrow slid upward as his face registered mock reproof. “My, my, what a warm welcome, my dear.” He shook his head and Charity laughed in spite of herself.

  “Don’t mind my bearishness,” she made half apology. “You know what pleasant moods I fall into while working. And this rain is depressing.”

  “But Miss Biglow is right.” Creighton smiled his rare, shy smile. Brusque and impatient as he was when on business bent, he was awkwardly uncomfortable in ordinary company. The man, Val sometimes thought privately, lived, ate, slept books. Save when they were the subject of conversation, he was as out of his element as a coal-miner at the ballet. “We should explain the reason for this—this rather abrupt call.” He fingered his brief-case, which he still clutched, nervously.

  “Down to business already.” Holmes seated himself on the arm of Ricky’s chair. “Very well, out with it.”

  Creighton smiled again, laid the case across his knees, and looked straight at Ricky. For some reason he talked to her, as if she above all others must be firmly convinced of the importance of his mission.

  “It is a very queer story, Miss Ralestone, a very queer—”

  “Said the mariner to the wedding guest.” Holmes snapped his fingers at Satan, who contemptuously ignored him. “Or am I thinking of the Whiting who talked to the Snail?”

  “Perhaps I had better begin at the beginning,” continued Creighton, frowning at Holmes who refused to be so suppressed.

  “Why be so dramatic about it, old man? It’s very simple, Miss Ricky. Creighton has lost an author and he wants you to help find him.”

  When Ricky’s eyes involuntarily swept about the room, Val joined in the laughter. “No, it isn’t as easy as all that, I’m afraid.” Creighton had lost his nervous shyness. “But what Holmes says is true. I have lost an author and do hope that you can help me locate the missing gentleman—or lady. Two months ago an agent sent a manuscript to our office for reading. It wasn’t complete, but he thought it was well worth our attention. It was.

  “Although there were only five chapters finished, the rest being but synopsis and elaborated scenes, we knew that we had something—something big. We delayed reporting upon it until Mr. Brewster—our senior partner—returned from Europe. Mr. Brewster has the final decision on all manuscripts; he was as well pleased with this offering as we were. Frankly, we saw possibilities of another great success such as those two long historical novels which have been so popular during the past few years.

  “Queerly enough, the author’s name was not upon the papers sent us by the agent—that is, his proper name; there was a pen-name. And when we applied to Mr. Lever, the agent, we received a most unpleasant shock. The author’s real name, which had been given in the covering letter mailed with the manuscript to Mr. Lever, had most strangely disappeared, due to some carelessness in his office.

  “Now we have an extremely promising book and no author—”

  “What I can’t understand,” cut in Holmes, “is the modesty of the author. Why hasn’t he written to Lever?”

  “That is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair.” Mr. Creighton shook his head. “Lever recalled that the chap had said in the letter that if Lever found the manuscript unsalable he should destroy it, as the writer was moving about and had no permanent address. The fellow added that if he didn’t hear from Lever he would assume that it was not acceptable. Lever wrote to the address given in the letter to acknowledge receipt, but that was all.”

  “Mysterious,” Val commented, interested in spite of himself.

  “Just so. Lever deduced from the tone of the letter that the writer was very uncertain of his own powers and hesitated to submit his manuscript. And yet, what we have is a very fine piece of work, far beyond the ability of the average beginner. The author must have written other things.

  “The novel is historical, with a New Orleans setting. Its treatment is so detailed that only one who had lived here or had close connections with this country could have produced it. Mr. Brewster, knowing that I was about to travel south, asked me to see if I could discover our missing author through his material. So far I have failed; our man is unknown to any of the writers of the city or to any of those interested in literary matters.

  “Yet he knows New Orleans and its history as few do today except those of old family who have been born and bred here. Dr. Hanly Richardson of Tulane University has assured me that much of the material used is authentic—historically correct to the last detail. And it was Dr. Richardson who suggested that several of the scenes must have actually occurred, becoming with the passing of time part of the tradition of some aristocratic family.

  “The period of the story is that time of transition when Louisiana passed from Spain to France and then under the control of the United States. It covers the years immediately preceding the Battle of New Orleans. Unfortunately, those were years of disturbance and change. Events which might have been the talk of the town, and so have found description in gossipy memoirs, were swallowed by happenings of national importance. It is, I believe, in intimate family records only that I can find the clue I seek.”

  “Which scenes”—Ricky’s eyes shone in the firelight—“are those Dr. Richardson believes real?”

  “Well, he was very certain that the duel of the twin brothers must have occurred—Why, Mr. Ralestone,” he interrupted himself as the stick Val was about to place on the fire fell from his hands and rolled across the floor. “Mr. Ralestone, what is the matter?”

  Across his shoulder Ricky signaled her brother. And above her head Val saw Holmes’ eyes narrow shrewd
ly.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry I was so clumsy.” Val stooped hurriedly to hide his confusion.

  “A duel between twin brothers.” Ricky twisted one of the buttons which marched down the front of her sport dress. “That sounds exciting.”

  “They fought at midnight”—Creighton was enthralled by the story he was telling—“and one was left for dead. The scene is handled with restraint and yet you’d think that the writer had been an eye-witness. Now if such a thing ever did happen, there would have been a certain amount of talk afterwards—”

  Charity nodded. “The slaves would have spread the news,” she agreed, “and the person who found the wounded twin.”

  Val kept his eyes upon the hearth-stone. There was no stain there, but his vivid imagination painted the gray as red as it had been that cold night when the slave woman had come to find her master lying there, his brother’s sword across his body. Someone had used the story of the missing Ralestone. But who today knew that story except themselves, Charity, LeFleur, and some of the negroes?

  “And you think that some mention of such an event might be found in the papers of the family concerned?” asked Ricky. She was leaning forward in her chair, her lips parted eagerly.

  “Or in those of some other family covering the same period,” Creighton added. “I realize that this is an impertinence on my part, but I wonder if such mention might not be found among the records of your own house. From what I have seen and heard, your family was very prominent in the city affairs of that time—”

  Ricky stood up. “There is no need to ask, Mr. Creighton. My brother and I will be most willing to help you. Unfortunately, Rupert is very much immersed in a business matter just now, but Val and I will go through the papers we have.”

  Val choked down the protest that was on his lips just in time to nod agreement. For some reason Ricky wanted to keep the secret. Very well, he would play her game. At least he would until he knew what lay behind her desire for silence.