The band swung into “I Love a Parade!” Colors waved madly. The crowd cheered itself hoarse. The sun, like a great brazen plaque hung in the cloudless blue sky, blazed down on winner and loser alike. Jockeys, in bright satins, on their way to the scales, rode their quivering, excited mounts by the judges’ stand, saluting as they passed. Tears were running down the face of Piggy Pike on Iron Man.
Nicholas Hoyt, leading Fortune, was unaware of the clamor; his thoughts were on Curtis Newsome. What had happened? His anxious inquiry had been evaded, and he had been swept toward his winning horse. Mrs. Pat’s box was empty. Something serious must have called her away. She was too good a sport not to wait to see the horse which had defeated her favorite receive his laurels. It was incredible that Curt, Curt Newsome, the superb rider, had been thrown. Had that detestable note from Estelle shaken his nerve, or had Fortune played a nasty trick on his rider?
Nicholas looked up at the black stallion whose satin smooth neck arched as if he were proudly conscious that the ovation was no more than his due. His ears were pricked; his sleek coat was barely ruffled after his victorious swing around the oval; he pranced a little on the perfect feet below his tapering ankles. As if he were a mind-reader, he turned his head and looked down into his owner’s eyes. Nicholas stroked his neck and whispered:
“Forgive me for doubting your sportsmanship, old boy.”
The cheers thinned as the crowd noted the empty saddle, then swelled and roared into acclaim. No matter what had happened to the jockey, he had helped win the race. Fortunes of war. The show must go on.
Nicholas broke away from the radio men who were importuning him to speak into the microphone. The gong was sounding for the next event on the card when he entered the Club House. Jed Langdon met him on the threshold and pulled him into a deserted game room.
“How’s Curt?”
Langdon gulped and shook his head in answer to Nicholas’ anxious query.
“Is he—has he—is he …” Horror blocked the last word.
Langdon nodded and with difficulty cleared his throat. “Keep your voice down. The stewards don’t want the news to get out yet. They are saying that Fortune’s jockey had a nasty smash.”
“Why—why did I let him ride!”
“Don’t take it so hard, Nick. Curt wanted to ride. He begged me to make you give him the chance. He said that if he could help your horse win he might get his self-respect back. He said, ‘Tell him to give me my chance, remind him that he said that a Thoroughbred isn’t judged by his winnings, he’s rated by the fight he puts up against strong odds.’ Did you tell him that?”
Nicholas nodded. He was seeing the white-faced boy facing him in the softly-lighted music room, was hearing his broken voice:
“Good gosh, life is an in-and-out, all right; guess I’m kind of hopelessly lost in it.”
“Pull yourself together, Nick. You gave him his chance.” Langdon lowered his already low voice. “Curt had me make a will here in the Club House, giving whatever he won to Mrs. Pat. Do you suppose he had a premonition?”
“A premonition!” The eyes of the two men met as Nicholas repeated the words. Through his memory echoed Curtis Newsome’s declaration:
“From now on I ride straight—if I find I can’t—well …”
Nicholas brushed his hand over suddenly blind eyes. Had life and Estelle been too much for the boy to fight?
“Did Pat get to him—in time?” he asked brokenly.
“No. He—he must have gone quick.”
Nicholas started for the door. “Come on, Jed! Let’s go to her; she’ll need us. Where is she?”
“In the trophy room—with—they took him there. B.D. is with her. I left to find you.”
“Did Estelle see—the accident?”
Langdon settled his tie with fingers not quite steady. “Yes. She tried to get into the room, but Mrs. Pat seemed to grow a foot as she shut the door in her face. As Curt would say, ‘I guess that is that.’ Have you seen Rousseau?”
“No.”
“Fortune’s victory will be a knock-out for him. He had staked his last penny on that horse.”
“He won’t have to starve long. He will have the Hoyt estate handed him on a gold platter tomorrow.”
“Don’t say die yet, Nick. Boy—I know that guy is an imposter!”
“So do I. But how can we prove it? Bridie! What are you doing here?”
The woman, who had been darting uncertainly about the hall, ran to Nicholas. Wisps of rusty hair fringed her hot, red face; she gasped for breath.
“Mister Nicholas! Oh, Mister Nick …” Her voice broke.
Nicholas put his arm about her and led her to a chair. “Shut the door, Jed.” Langdon’s eyes met his. They intimated plainly: “If this woman has heard of Curt’s passing, the news must be all over the enclosure.”
“Sit down, Bridie. Pull yourself together.”
“Mister Nicholas …”
He patted her shoulder. “Take it easy. Don’t try to talk till your breath stops pumping.”
“But Mister Nich-olas! I must—she’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?”
“Miss Sandra! She …”
Langdon caught Nicholas’ arm. “Don’t shake the poor old girl, Nick. She’s about all in.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Bridie. I went crazy for a minute. Take your time—but talk as fast as you can! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”
“I’m tryin’, Mister Nicholas. Ye see, I waited in Miss Sandra’s room—till she come from—the ball.”
“Who came to the door with her?”
“To the door with her! No one, that I knows of, Mister Nicholas. I didn’t hear her say good-night to anyone. She was tired, that child was, an’ I rubbed her pretty feet an’ brushed her hair an’—”
“Cut that and get going, Bridie,” Jed Langdon interrupted. “Nick’s cracking up with anxiety. What makes you think Miss Duval has gone?”
“Because the lamp was lighted—she must have left the room while it was still dark—an’ her bed hadn’t been slept in an’ her dresses is all in the wardrobe. The pink neg-li-gee she was wearin’ whin I left her was in a heap as if she’d dropped it suddin-like, only them pretty blue velvet pyjamas she likes was missin’, an’—an’ this is what frightens me, the empty case her diamond bracelet was in was on the dressin’ table.”
Nicholas clamped his teeth to keep back an exclamation. Huckins had seen Sandra and Rousseau at the girl’s door, and she was in blue velvet pyjamas—but the Kentuckian wouldn’t abduct her for diamonds; he was too near coming into a fortune.
“Where were the dogs?”
“Shut out on the balconies, Miss Nicholas. They were most crazy whin I opened the French window; they wint whinin’ an’ sniffin’ round the room.”
“How long since you found this out, Bridie?”
“It was noon. I didn’t go to her room till thin ’cause Miss Sandra had told me as how she had her work for today done, she would sleep late. Mrs. Newsome wint to the track early. Whin I knocked at Miss Sandra’s door an’ she didn’t answer, I thought she might of changed her mind an’ gone with the family.”
“Why didn’t you ’phone me?”
“Didn’t ye have a horse in the race? Ye had enough on yer mind. I couldn’t find any of the upper servants. Mrs. Newsome had let them all go to the races. I found Emma—”
“Emma! Why go to Emma?”
Jed Langdon’s excited question penetrated the fog of apprehension. Bridie looked up with faded, tear-filled eyes.
“Shouldn’t I have gone to her, Mister Nicholas? She was in her room packin’ up. She said the housekeeper had fired her, and Mrs. Newsome didn’t like her round. She looked terrible. These are hard times for them as lose their jobs.”
“Had Emma seen Sandra?”
Bridie’s heavy-veined hand patted the fingers biting into her shoulder.
“Ye’re kind of hurtin’, Mister Nicholas.” With a muttered apology he thrust his hands into his pockets. “Tha
t’s better. Whin I told as how I couldn’t find a trace of Miss Sandra, she stared at me wild-eyed, an’ thin she laughed an’ laughed crazy-like till she choked into a kind of cackle. I was that mad I said:
“What’s so funny about Miss Sandra’s bein’ missin’, Emma?’
“She laughed again—’twas like a witch croakin’. ‘My mistake,’ she says. ‘Believe me, it’s nothin’ funny—it’s a break! You go along Bridie, I’ll hunt for her too.’ ”
Could a heart burst from racking, agonizing anxiety and suspense, Nicholas demanded of himself? Emma, who had found the letters in the secret drawer, laughing at Sandra’s disappearance! What did it mean?
“Listen to Bridie, Nick.” Langdon’s steady voice recalled him to the present. “She says that no one at Seven Chimneys had seen or heard of Sandra this morning.”
“An’ I wint to Stone House to ask Nanny O’Day. The child hadn’t been there. But I found this.”
Nicholas snatched the flashlight she had drawn from her pocket. He turned it over. S.D. Sandra’s!
“Where?”
“In the road opposite where the brood mares and the colts are pastured.”
“Notice any tire tracks, Bridie?”
“Jed! Jed! Why stand here asking questions? Let’s get busy. Come on!”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere out of here, so long as we are moving. We’ll make a break for the roadster. If we don’t get out before the crowd starts for the gates, we’ll never get there. Jed, go to Pat, will you; tell her—tell her that Sandra is missing, that I have gone to find her. Do what I would do for her. Come, Bridie.”
With one arm around the little woman, Nicholas elbowed his way through the crowd. People turned to look and turned quickly away. A few banged him sympathetically on the shoulder. He knew by their faces that in spite of the care of the authorities the news of the tragedy had seeped out. That made it easier for him to get away to find Sandra. Where was she?
He swung Bridie into the roadster. In an instant more he was tensely guiding it through the congestion of home-going and on-coming cars. He drew a sharp sigh of relief as he turned into a back road. He smiled reassuringly at the woman beside him.
“We can go faster here, Bridie.”
“Try to take it easy, Mister Nicholas. Sure an’ we’re all of us actin’ as though somethin’ terrible happened to Miss Sandra. She may jest have decided to go to the city or—or something like that.”
“In blue velvet pyjamas? Sorry I snapped, Bridie, but I’ve been almost out of my mind over the disappearance of Sharp—”
“Eddie Sharp! Where’s he?”
“He’s gone too.”
“Gone, has he? Thin who rode Fortune?”
“Mr. Newsome.”
“Sure an’ what do ye know about that! I wonder was it because he was goin’ to ride that his wife—”
“What did his wife do? Quick, Bridie! We’ve got to know everything that has been said or done if we are to find Sandra.”
“There, there, Mister Nicholas, we’re goin’ to find her, sure.” Bridie patted the white knuckled hand on the wheel. “I was lookin’ after the new maid—it’s the fourth new one in the last month—who was doin’ up Mrs. Newsome’s bed, whin I heard the mistress in the next room say:
“ ‘I saw you last night by the fountain, Curt. Sometimes I wish you were a jockey again. It would be worth a fortune to see that snooty girl friend of yours turn you down flat.’
“An’ he said, ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I might be trusted, Pat?’ Then I saw the new girl’s ears were standin’ out straight listenin’ an’ I shut the door between the rooms, quick.”
Half of Nicholas’ attention was on what the woman was saying, half of his mind was suggesting and rejecting possibilities. Sandra’s pocket flash had been found on the back road to Stone House. Didn’t that indicate that she had been on her way there when she had dropped it? Had she been coming to him? If so, at what time? It must have been after eleven this morning or she would have seen Nanny O’Day. At that hour the housekeeper and the maids were to leave for the track, taking a picnic lunch—Charity Race Day was the supreme holiday in the county, it ranked every other—but it couldn’t have been after eleven; hadn’t Bridie said that she had found the lamp lighted in the boudoir? Bond and a couple of swipes were on duty at the stables. Would Sandra appeal to them if she could not get into the house?
“We can’t do much for Miss Sandra if we get smashed to jelly or jailed for speedin’,” reminded Bridie practically.
Nicholas reduced speed. “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?”
The faded eyes gazed back at him adoringly. “Jest fer a minute ye did, an’ thin I said to meself, ‘He ain’t takin’ any chances till he finds Miss Sandra,’ but I thought I’d remind ye of how fast you was going, jest the same.”
“You bet I’m not taking chances, Bridie.”
The glimpse of the stone and clapboard house at the end of the tree-bordered drive as the roadster swung between the iron gates at Seven Chimneys reminded Nicholas of the day he had brought Sandra from the station. Little he had thought then that the girl would come to mean all the world and a little bit of heaven to him. He should have known from the tingle in his veins when she had held out the bill crumpled in her hand and had said:
“Please take this for smokes or talkies.”
From that moment she had been in his heart, and now—he snapped out of his torturing reflections as he stopped at the front door. He swung Bridie to the step.
“Hustle up to Miss Sandra’s room, Bridie; she may have come back. I’ll go over the lower floor. After that we’ll beat it to Stone House.”
A hush brooded over the hall as he entered, an ominous hush, as if already the long dark shadow of death was stealing across the threshold. His footsteps on the tiled floor gave back a ghostly echo. He glanced into the library lighted only by the glow above the M.F.H.; a half completed puzzle was spread on the small table. He swept the pieces into their box and dropped it into a drawer of the desk. No need for Pat to be hurt by that when she came back.
The still living room seemed to be holding its breath, seemed to be listening for a footstep. Sunshine was streaming in through the studio window; it turned each blossom on the mimosa trees to gold; lingered, as if tenderly, on the worn violin case on the piano.
Nicholas’ throat contracted. It seemed incredible that Curt never would enter this room again, never would—what was that sound? The tinkle of silver on china? Men’s voices? The high tea! Had no one told them?
The dining room was fragrant with white flowers in silver bowls; great candelabra held tall pale yellow tapers ready for lighting; the refectory table with its scarf of rare lace was laden with piles of plates, platoons of cups and saucers, salvers of sandwiches and cakes, ornate dishes of nuts and candies. Silver chafing dishes, two or three of which already were sending forth delectable aromas, were in line on the buffet. Nicholas followed the sound of voices to the pantry.
The caterer listened in shocked silence as he told him that there would be no tea, and why; with a low command to his startled men, silently the boss began to fold his tents.
What next, Nicholas asked himself, as he returned to the hall. Here was Huckins—surely Huckins would know—
“Mister Nicholas!”
Nicholas charged up the stairs to meet Bridie who was half way down. She was wringing her hands; her eyes were popping with excitement. He clutched her shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Come quick! Come quick! Softly! Softly! I don’t know how to tell ye!”
CHAPTER XXV
In the hall at Stone House Sandra clutched Sharp’s arm. “Look! Look! The knob moved!” she repeated in a husky whisper.
“Perhaps it isn’t a person, Miss, perhaps it’s the wind,” encouraged the jockey under his breath. “Go back, I’ll find out. No one will get past me. I’m all set to give someone the works. I don’t care much who.”
Sa
ndra barely breathed as she listened behind the hanging. She glanced at the opening between the bookshelves. Could she escape if necessary through the frame? That letter would be snatched only from her dead body! Sharp had turned the knob! He … had he let in a whirlwind?
“Bud! Buddy! Were you looking for Sandy?”
She dropped to her knees and flung her arms about the dogs who frantically licked her face and hair.
“Sweet things! They must have been nosing that knob! It wasn’t … I forgot! We must get away from here. You can drop me at Seven Chimneys on your way to the track, Sharp. Hurry!”
“I’ll be at the side door with my own car, Miss.”
“Hurry! Hurry!”
Sandra paced the hall with the dogs at her heels. No wonder the commotion she and the jockey had made had been unheard. Every one was at the races. The side door probably locked when it closed.
The clock again! Fifteen more minutes gone. Would the big race be held up to wait for the missing jockey? Doubtless that question showed her ignorance of the methods of the turf. Wheels on the gravel!
The dogs bounded after her as she ran to the car.
“We’ve got to take them, Sharp. I may need them terribly. Who won the race?”
“Shove the dogs in back. Scram, fellas! All set? No one saw me take out the car. The boys were in my room listening to the broadcast. I didn’t want to hear who won. The big race came off, all right. They wouldn’t wait for me. I’ll bet Mr. Nicholas is cussing me for a dirty doublecrosser.” One great tear rolled down his cheek.
“Hurry, Sharp! I went to Stone House to help him. Every second lessens my chance. The man who kidnaped you may be on my trail. Don’t worry. Mr. Nicholas will understand when you explain.”
“What can I explain, Miss, except that someone who said he was Mr. Langdon ’phoned me in a soft voice to meet my boss at the Hunt Club an’ I went? I’ll be picked for the All-American dumbbell team, sure. I had just sense enough to give one of the two men who seized my arms a fierce kick on the shin—I’ll bet he’s limping—then I didn’t know anything more till I came to in what you said was the underground passage. Will Mr. Nicholas believe that yarn?”
Uncharted Seas Page 23