Mark looked at Beulah. “Where was this?”
“Under the rug inside my front door. She must have slipped it there that night. I always told her she could come to me for help. And when she did come, when she needed me, I was—” She looked out of the window, seeing nothing. “I’m afraid too. I wouldn’t have come back except for Bessy.”
“She’s all right. She’s locked in. Beulah, what did Florrie find? What does she mean by ‘Who is dead?’”
She pointed to the other piece of paper. It was a newspaper clipping, faintly yellow but carefully preserved except for one ragged tear at the bottom. It bore no date and no identifying marks beyond two capital letters at the top left. They were obviously the end of a name, either of the sheet itself or the place of its origin. To kill time, he fingered the paper. Poor quality, small town. He was afraid to read it. He knew that once he did, things would never be as they were then. She saw what he was thinking.
“Go on,” she said. “You’ve got to.”
He read in a whisper. “We regret to inform our many readers that the party responsible for the crime which occurred on Saturday night a mile west of Citrus City is still at large. Owing to lack of witnesses and due to fact that no description of hit-and-run car is available, our efficient young constable, Mr. Roy Graybar, don’t look for an early arrest. But there is one bright ray piercing the sad gloom. Our citizens will be happy to know that the poor soul who met his death in our midst has been identified by a friend who was passing through town. The dead man is Mr. J.—”
That was all. The tear was a recent one. He noted the two letters at the top. DA. Probably the last two letters of the paper’s name or, and he thought this more likely, the name of a state. Citrus City,—Easy to check in an atlas.
“Would somebody kill to get possession of that?” Beulah asked.
“Yes. He doesn’t know the name is gone. Torn off through handling in the trash, and burned. Apparently it’s dynamite. Why was it kept? And who kept it?”
“Can you find out?”
“I think so. If I’m any good I can. . . . Beulah, do you want to go home? I’ll take you and Bessy down to-night. You needn’t explain to anybody.”
“No. I won’t leave those children. But we mustn’t tell Bessy. She’s not strong. Mark, will Bessy be safe?”
“I’ll make it safe. But I’ll be helpless unless you do exactly as I say. You’ve never seen this clipping and you don’t know Florrie left a note! Did you say anything to Amos?”
“Never! I stopped there because I wanted to see somebody I’d known all my life. And while I was there I gave him a piece of my mind about not coming up here last night with Perley Wilcox. He admitted he was grieving drunk.”
“Morey says you didn’t return his greeting.”
“I—couldn’t. His name begins with a J.”
“What’s Colonel Davenport’s name?”
“Jacob. . . . Oh, Mark!”
“You see? You’re crazy. Remember, J is dead, run over. I like the sound of his friend better. The friend, male or female, who was so conveniently passing through. Small town, hit-and-run with no witnesses, identification, insurance. And not even an initial to give him away.”
“Are you going to tell Wilcox?”
“Everything. I need his help with some long-distance calls. Did Amos say anything about Florrie’s funeral?”
“To-morrow. Three o’clock. . . . Mark, I left you a note saying I was going for handkerchiefs. But I went to mail a letter to Colonel Davenport. I told him about the troubles we were having. Are you mad?”
“No. I didn’t get the note, though. It’s probably kicking around. Now you go let Bessy out and then both of you come down for a drink before dinner. And be gay if it kills you.” He gave her the key.
It was then four o’clock, and over in Bear River Mrs. Perley Wilcox was writing on a blackboard.
CHAPTER TEN
MRS. PERLEY WILCOX was listening to her kitchen radio when her brother came to the back door with news from her mother. He was glum. The old girl thought she was dying again; no use telling her it was too much apple dumpling and the new batch of beans she would eat before they were half done. She was holding out for fallen stomach and, by Harry, it ought to fall. She’d carried on like a child until they promised to drive in and fetch Pansy. Would Pansy come? The old girl was lonesome for another woman, that’s all. Nothing wrong a pinch of soda wouldn’t cure. Like as not she took the soda herself the minute she heard the sleigh drive off.
Mrs. Wilcox, Pansy, pushed a kettle of soup to the back of the stove, got into suitable clothing, and trotted over to the family blackboard. This was fastened to the wall between two windows. There was one message on it already: POP. LEAVE ME A QUARTER. URGENT. FLOYD. She drew a line under this and wrote her own: I AM CALLED TO MAMMA’S EATING TOO MUCH AGAIN BUT THE POOR THING COUNTS ON ME. FLOYD DO YOUR LESSONS GOOD. PERLEY DON’T STAY LATE AT LODGE. SOUP ON STOVE WITH GOOD CHUNK MEAT IN AND BISCUITS AND PIE IN PANTRY. DON’T LOOK FOR ME BEFORE TEN. MAMMA.
Young Floyd Wilcox came in shortly after four, found his quarter in the chalk box, read his mother’s announcement, and threw his cap in the air. He cut a slab from the good chunk of meat, making a mess of the stove, and converted it into a sandwich. While he ate this he added a third message: POP I AM OVER AT A FELLOW’S HOUSE DOING MATH IF I GET ASKED TO STAY TO SUPPER I’LL STAY AND DO MORE MATH AFTER. FLOYD THANKS FOR QUARTER.
He took his gun out of the closet and went next door to tell Chester Green they had the chance of a lifetime.
Chester was considered a lucky boy by his friends. His mother was dead and his father worked for the railroad and never got home before midnight. Ever since the first tragedy at Crestwood, Floyd and Chester had longed to view the scene. This was morbid and not to be thought of. But morbid or not, to-night was their chance. They’d ride both ways in the bus with their faces hidden in their mufflers, and if they were caught they’d take their lickings like men. The guns were pure chicanery. They might meet small game in the woods, and parental wrath was known to soften at the sight of something for the pot. At quarter after five they had started up the mountain and they had one rabbit.
At five Mark entered the library to cast an experimental fly into a fast-darkening stream.
Stoneman was alone by the fire. “Drink?” he asked.
“Later,” Mark said. He walked over to the bookcases and ran a finger along the titles. “Travel,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m looking for travel books.”
“You don’t need books,” Stoneman said. “I’ve got it all in my head.”
“This is something new.” He came back with an atlas and a volume extolling Florida. “Did you ever do any research among our native Indians? Burial mounds?”
“No,” said Stoneman after a pause. “And I don’t want to.”
“You have a closed mind. That’s bad. And it’s getting worse and worse. Take that plan of yours for switching our operations to New York. Trading the mountain blast for the city slush. That’s narrow. I don’t like it. I like the southern sun.”
“I think,” Stoneman said surprisingly, “you have a touch of it already.”
Mark laughed loudly and returned to his books. “Now back to the Indians,” he said. “I’ve worked out a wonderful scheme. You’ll get your name in the papers and you’ll like that, won’t you? Don’t answer; I know. And now, get this: while you’re waiting for a chance to increase your prestige in foreign parts, why don’t you make a pretty gesture with the bones of the original American? A sort of patriotic warmup?”
Stoneman reached for the bottle and spiked his drink. “I’m not offering you any . . . more,” he said.
Mark seemed not to hear. “Florida,” he said, stabbing a page with his finger. “Florida. I like places that end in da. Of course you can have Canada or Nevada, but they’re cold. Florida is warm, and it sounds nice and soft. Nice and soft, like driving along a road in the dark and—oh, well, that’s another story. Flori
da, lovely climate and full of Indians. If you won’t go, I’ll go alone. Now all I need is a nice little town for headquarters. Something with a quaint name.” He put the travel book aside and picked up the atlas, never once looking in Stoneman’s direction. His hands were sweating, but he knew what he was doing. He’d checked the books earlier and found what he hardly hoped to find so soon. Citrus City in the state of Florida. Population fifteen hundred.
“I’m going to my room,” Stoneman said.
“No, don’t!” He stabbed a page again. “Just when I’ve found the perfect place. . . . Citrus City!”
Perrin came in with a bowl of ice.
“Thanks,” Mark beamed. “Mr. Stoneman needs that. And you’d better bring a fresh bottle. What’s your first name, Perrin?”
Perrin looked at Stoneman, but Stoneman had turned his back. “George, sir,” he answered quietly. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Are these the Colonel’s books or the Moreys’?”
“We brought no books, sir.” He took another bottle of Scotch from the cabinet, placed it beside Stoneman, and left the room.
“I just wondered,” Mark said. “Somebody’s checked the name of that town. You know, Citrus City. I guess Davenport went there.” He carried the book over to Stoneman and held it before his eyes. “See?” The check was there; he’d seen to that himself.
Stoneman answered in a furious undertone. “Control yourself, you fool! The ladies are here.”
Beulah bounded into the room, followed by Bessy leaning sedately on Morey’s arm. Mark winced when he saw the gaiety in Beulah’s eye. It was the glittering kind that expressed itself in little screams, flounces, and slaps with a fan. Thank God she didn’t have a fan. He put the atlas beside the travel book and returned to his chair. He was still sweating. Had Citrus City meant anything to Stoneman? He couldn’t be sure.
Morey, pouring drinks, gave Stoneman a long look.” What’s the matter with you, Joe? Are you cold?”
Mark pounced. “I’m worried about him,” he said. “He’s driving himself too hard. He needs a rest, and a warm climate. I’ve been telling him so. If ever a man needed Florida, he does. Look at him—he’s shaking!”
Stoneman was shaking; he’d gone back to his old trick of hiding his hands.
“You need a drink, Joe,” Morey said. He filled the glass. “But why Florida?”
“Why not? It has everything.” Mark indicated the books. “Just before you came in I was trying to sell him on a little town that seems to have been a favourite of Davenport’s. At least, it’s been checked by somebody, Citrus City.” He raised guileless eyes and swore under his breath. Morey wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were on the door. Laura Morey, rouged and perfumed, was joining them.
The only people in the room who reacted normally were Bessy and Beulah. They made affectionate noises and plumped pillows. Nobody ever looked less in need of a pillow than Laura Morey. She was hard and brilliant, perfectly poised. The three men stared. Mark felt a new kind of cold, this time around his heart.
Her husband spoke first. “You’re wonderful,” he said. “I always knew you could do it. But why didn’t you tell me? I’d have had cocktails for you.”
“I’ll try Joe’s Scotch,” she said. She smiled at Mark and Stoneman and took a seat between Bessy and Beulah. “I feel I haven’t been quite fair to you good people. There are only a few days left now, and I want to know you better before I leave. You know we’re going?”
Bessy patted her bandaged face. “I don’t blame you. I’m sure the Colonel won’t blame you either. I’ll be glad to get home myself.”
“You’ve been amazingly helpful,” Laura said softly. “If you can only stay with me until—”
“We will,” said Beulah. “We’ll stay until you’re safely on the train. . . . You’re taking your time with those drinks, young man,” she called to Morey.
Morey winked at her. “How about Miss Petty?”
“I told her she could have two,” Beulah cackled. “One for each pill she took. We’ll drown ’em out.”
“And we’ll carry her upstairs feet first,” Mark murmured. He absently took the glass Morey handed him. Things were moving too swiftly and evenly. If he didn’t move fast himself he was going to be left on the station platform, holding two suitcases. Stoneman’s belated chills were the only good sign. Later on, if Beulah could arrange to take over the dictograph. . . . He stared into his drink and thought furiously about his next move. It came at once and it wasn’t what he planned.
A shot rang out, clean and clear. Silence fell like thunder. Stoneman’s glass crashed to the marble hearth and he slumped in his chair.
Morey ran across the room. “Joe!”
“He’s all right,” Mark cried. “It was outside. It didn’t come in!” He herded the three terrified women into a corner. “Stay here a minute. You’ll be safe. Perrin!”
But Perrin was already beside him, looking ready to kill. “What was that? What was that, Mr. East!”
“Somebody shooting outside. Don’t worry about Stoneman; get these women upstairs and lock them in with the children and Violet. Then come back here.”
He saw them leave, mute and stumbling, and then followed Morey through the French window out into the black night. They stood side by side on the terrace, tense, uncertain, panting.
“Which way?” Morey asked. “Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know. Pretty close, though. Shall we divide up?”
“You go right and I’ll go left.” As Morey spoke, the entire front of the house blazed into light, flooding the snow and the encroaching trees. Perrin came through the window.
“Who turned on those lights?” Morey snapped.
“Miss Pond, sir. She thought you’d need them. I left her in charge.”
“Turn them off. We’re targets. Wait, I’ll take care of it. Got a gun on you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Use it. You?” to Mark.
“No.’
“Neither have I, damn.” He spoke rapidly. “East will cover the right, I’ll take the left, and, Perrin, you go straight down the drive. Yell if you find anything and shoot anybody you see.”
Perrin slipped quietly away. Mark moved off to the right. Morey stepped back to the window.
“Joe?” he called. Stoneman’s thin, frightened voice answered. “Get Wilcox on the ’phone and tell him what’s happened. Then you go upstairs with the others. Miss Pond will take care of you. And turn off those lights, all of them!”
Mark plunged through laurel and rhododendron, cursing the dark. He heard Morey thrashing around on the other side, then the sound grew fainter. It was useless and he knew it. He couldn’t see a foot ahead. It would have been better to leave the lights on. Once he thought he saw two figures running down the drive and he nearly shouted. He remembered it was Perrin’s territory and Perrin had a gun. That was something to remember—Perrin had a gun.
The cold was frightful. He could see better now, enough to know that there were no tracks in the snow. Nobody had come that way. He sat on a boulder, panting. He figured he must be half a mile from the house. He looked back. Nothing in sight—not even a start to prick the blackness.
The marksman, whoever he was, was safe. They’d never get him in this wilderness. He could easily be hiding behind a rock, laughing to himself; but he wasn’t shooting. Not now. Maybe he didn’t want any of the three who were, hunting him; maybe he wanted one of those who hadn’t come out. Stoneman, Violet, Beulah, or Bessy, Mrs. Morey. That rock last night . . . the kids. Had last night been a warning and was this the real thing? Had he known they’d come dashing out like idiots and leave the house open for him to walk in? A house that held one old man, four women, two children.
Mark looked at the luminous dial of his watch. They’d been out there for twenty minutes. Ten more minutes to get back if he ran. They’d given the nameless devil a good half-hour. He could wipe out a regiment in that time.
He ran back the wa
y he’d come, falling over the same bushes. When he reached the terrace he saw a small light moving up the driveway. It was Perrin, with an electric torch. So he had that as well as the gun.
“I went down on one side and came up on the other. There’s nothing,” Perrin said.
“No,” Mark said. He told him what he’d been thinking. They moved quickly to the window, still dark and unlocked. Mark wondered about Morey. They heard him coming almost at once, swearing and stumbling. They went into the house together, and Mark walked wearily. There was dead silence and the smell of spilt whisky.
Morey switched on the lights in the empty room and went immediately to the fire. “If I ever get my hands on—” He took up the poker and prodded the coals furiously. “I suppose you didn’t see anything either?”
Mark told him what he’d told Perrin, watching them both. Morey looked white.
“O.K. up there?” he called.
Beulah’s voice came back, faint but reassuring.
“That’s that,” he said. “I hope Joe got Wilcox. Go ask him, Perrin, but don’t let anybody hear you. And see what Violet can do about dinner. You might tell the ladies I’ll be up shortly. I’ll have to think up something to tell them.”
Perrin left.
“Poachers!” Morey snapped his fingers. “That’s what I’ll tell them. Poachers. They always sound good. We saw their tracks but they got away. Will that go down, do you think?”
“Not with me,” Mark said, pouring himself a drink. “And not, I think, with Wilcox. I have a hunch he’ll bring his guards back.”
“I wish he would. They never should have gone. But that’s Laura. Do you think Wilcox is good enough for this thing? What do you think yourself?”
“I think you’d better get out while you can.”
“I’ve got to.” Morey prodded the fire again. “This is the last straw. . . . Well, Perrin?”
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