by Andre Norton
“Val,” she repeated, and then, paying no heed to his frantic injunctions to keep away, she dug at earth and rotten wood with her hands. Using the long bundle clumsily wrapped in stained canvas, she levered a piece of beam out of the way so that she might get down on her knees and scoop up the sand and clay.
“Ricky! Val!” The light swung ahead as someone scrambled through the hole in the barrier wall. Then, when the ray held firm upon them, the headlong rush was checked for a long instant. “Val!”
“Get her—away,” he begged. “Another—slip—”
But before he had done, a long arm gathered Ricky up as if she had been a child. “Right,” came the firm answer. “Sam, take Miss ’Chanda back. Then—”
Val was watching the reflection of the flash on the broken roof above him. Sand slid in tiny streams down the wall, mingling with the greenish trickles of water. There were queer blue and green arcs painted on the brick which had something to do with the hot pain behind his eyes. The blue turned to orange—to scarlet—
“Careful! Right here in the hall, Holmes—”
The broken earth above him had somehow been changed to a high ceiling, the chill darkness to blazing light and warmth.
“Ricky?” he asked.
“Here, Val.” Her face was very close to his.
“You—are—all—right?”
“’Course!” But she was crying. “Don’t try to talk, Val. You must be quiet.”
He heard someone moving toward them but he kept his eyes on Ricky’s face. “We did it!”
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “we did it.”
“Val, don’t try to talk.” Rupert’s face showed above Ricky’s hunched shoulder. There was an odd, strained look about his mouth, a smear of mud across his cheek. But the harsh tone of his voice struck his brother as dumb as if he had slapped him.
“Sorry,” Val shaped the words stiffly, “all my fault.”
“Nothing’s your fault,” Ricky’s indignant answer cut in. “But—but just be quiet, Val, until the doctor comes.”
He turned his head slowly. On the hearth-stone stood Charity talking quietly to Holmes. Just within the circle of the firelight lay a bundle which he had seen before. But of course, that was the thing they had found in the passage, which Ricky had used to pound out their answer to Rupert.
“Ricky—” Val always believed that it was some instinct out of the past which forced that whisper out of him—“Ricky, open that package.”
“Why—” she began, but then she got to her feet and went to the bundle, twisting the tarred rope that fastened it in a vain attempt to undo the intricate knots. It was Holmes who produced a knife and sawed through the tough cord. And it was Holmes who unrolled the strips of canvas, oil-silk, and greasy skins. But it was Ricky who took up what lay within and held it out so that it reflected both red firelight and golden room light.
Her brother’s sigh was one of satisfaction.
For Ricky held aloft by its ponderous hilt a great war sword. There could be no doubt in any of them—the Luck of Lorne had returned.
“We found it!” breathed Ricky.
“Put it in its place,” Val ordered.
Without a word, Rupert drew out a chair and scrambled up. Taking from Ricky’s hands the ancient weapon, he slipped it into the niche their pirate ancestor had made for it. In spite of the years underground, the metal of hilt and blade was clear. Seven hundred years of history—their Luck!
“Everything will come right again,” Val repeated as Ricky came back to him. “You’ll see. Everything—will—be—all—right.”
His eyes closed in spite of his efforts. He was back in the darkness where he could only feel the warmth of Ricky’s hands clasped about his.
CHAPTER XVI
Ralestones Stand Together
“I like Louisiana,” drawled Holmes lazily from his perch on the window-seat. “The most improbable things happen here. One finds secret passages under houses and medieval war swords stuck in drains. Then there are ‘things that go boomp in the night,’ too. It might be worth settling down here—”
“Not for you,” cut in Charity briskly. “Too far from the bright lights for you, my man.”
“Just for that,” he triumphed, “I shall not return this lost property found under a cushion of the couch in the hall.”
At the sight of that familiar black note-book, Val shifted uneasily on his pillows. Rupert got up.
“Tired, old man?” he asked and reached to straighten one of his brother’s feather-stuffed supports.
Val shook his head. Being bandaged like a mummy was wearying, but one had to humor two broken ribs and a fractured collar-bone.
“Sometimes,” replied Charity, “you are just too clever, Mr. Judson Holmes. That does not happen to be my property.”
“No?” He flipped it open and held it up so that she might see what lay within. “I’ll admit that it isn’t your usual sort of stuff, but—”
She was staring at the drawings. “No, that isn’t mine. But who—”
Ricky got up from the end of Val’s cot and went to look. Then she turned, her eyes shining with excitement. “You’re trying them again! But, Val, you said you never would.”
“Give me that book!” he ordered grimly. But Rupert had calmly collected the trophy and was turning over the pages one by one. Val made a horrible face at Ricky and resigned himself to the inevitable.
“How long have you been doing this sort of thing?” his brother asked as he turned the last page.
“Ever so long,” Ricky answered for Val brightly. “He used to draw whole letters of them when we were at school. There were two sets, one for good days and the other for bad.”
“And now,” Val cut in, “suppose we just forget the whole matter. Will you please let me have that!”
“Rupert, don’t let him go all modest on us now,” urged the demon sister. “One retiring violet in the family is enough.”
“And who is the violet? Your charming self?” inquired Holmes.
“No.” Ricky smiled pleasantly. “Only Mr. Creighton might be interested in the contents of Bluebeard’s Chamber. What do you think, Rupert?”
At that audacious hint, Val remembered the night of the storm and Ricky’s strange attitude then.
“So Rupert’s the missing author,” he commented lightly. “Well, well, well.”
Charity’s indulgent smile faded, and Holmes, suddenly alert, leaned forward. Rupert stared at Val for a long moment, his face blank. Was he going to retire behind his wall of reserve from which their venture underground had routed him? Or was he going to remain the very human person who had spent eight hours of every day at his brother’s beck and call for the past few weeks?
“Regular Charlie Chan, aren’t you?” he asked mildly.
Val’s sigh of relief was echoed by Ricky. “Thanks—so much,” Val replied humbly in the well-known manner of the famous detective Rupert had likened him to.
“Then we are right?” asked Ricky.
Rupert’s eyebrows slid upward. “You seemed too sure to be in doubt,” he commented.
“Well, I was sure at times. But then no one can ever be really sure of anything about you,” she admitted frankly.
“But why—” protested Charity.
“Why didn’t I spread the glad tidings that I was turning out the great American novel?” he asked. “I don’t know. Perhaps I am a violet—no?” He looked pained at Ricky’s snort of dissent. “Or perhaps I just don’t like to talk about things which may never come true. When I didn’t hear from Lever, I thought that my worst forebodings were realized and that my scribbling was worthless. But you know,” he paused to fill his pipe, “writing is more or less like the drug habit. I’ve told stories all my life, and I found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my disappointment. As for talking about it—well, how much has Val ever said about these?” He ruffled the pages of the note-book provokingly.
“Nothing. And you would never have seen those if I coul
d have prevented it,” his brother replied. “Those are for my private satisfaction only.”
“Two geniuses in one family.” Ricky rolled her eyes heavenward. “This is almost too, too much!”
“Jeems,” Val ordered, “you’re the nearest. Can’t you make her shut up?”
“Just let him try,” said his sister sweetly. The swamper grinned but made no move to stir from his chair.
Jeems had become as much a part of Pirate’s Haven as the Luck, which Val could see from his cot glimmering dully in its niche in the Long Hall. The swamper’s confinement in the sick-room had paled his heavy tan and he had lost the sullen frown which had made him appear so old and bitter. Now, dressed in a pair of Val’s white slacks and a shirt from his wardrobe, Jeems was as much at ease in his surroundings as Rupert or Holmes.
It had been Jeems who had saved Ricky and Val on that night of terror when they had been trapped in the secret ways of their pirate ancestors. Sam Two had trailed Ricky to the garden and had witnessed their entering the tunnel. But his racial fear of the dark unknown had kept him from venturing in after them. So he had lingered there long enough to see the invaders come out and take to the river. Catching some words of theirs about a cave-in, he had gone pelting off to Rupert with the story.
The investigating party from the levee had discovered, to their horror, the passage choked for half its length. They were making a futile and dangerous attempt to clear it when Jeems appeared on the scene. Letty-Lou having given him a garbled account of events, he had staggered from his bed in an effort to reach Rupert. He alone knew the underground ways as well as he knew the garden. And so once getting Rupert’s attention, he had set them to work in the cellar cutting through to the one passage which paralleled the foundation walls.
In the weeks which followed their emergence from the threatened tomb, the swamper had unobtrusively slipped into a place in the household. While Val was frightening his family by indulging in a bout of fever to complicate his injuries, Jeems was proving himself a tower of strength and a person to be relied upon. Even Lucy had once asked his opinion on the importance of a fire in the hall, and with that his position was assured.
Of the invaders they had heard or seen no more, although the police had visited Pirate’s Haven on two separate occasions, interviewing each and every member of the household. They had also made a half-hearted attempt to search the swamp. But for all the evidence they found, Ricky and Val might have been merely indulging in an over-vivid dream. Save that the Luck hung again in the Long Hall.
“Seriously, though,” Holmes drew Val’s thoughts out of the past, “these are worth-while. Would you mind if I showed them to a friend of mine who might be interested?”
Since Rupert had already nodded and Charity had handed him the note-book, Val decided that he could hardly raise a protest.
“Rupert,” Charity glanced at him, “are you going to see Creighton?”
“Since all has been discovered,” he misquoted, “I suppose that that is all there is left for me to do.”
“Then you had better do it today; he’s planning to leave for the North tonight,” she informed him.
Rupert came to life. For all his pose of unconcern, he was excited. In the long days Val had been tied to the cot hurriedly set up in a corner of the drawing-room on the night of the rescue—it had been thought wiser to move him no farther than necessary—he had found again the real Rupert they had known of old. There was little he could conceal from his younger brother now—or so Val thought.
“Sam has the roadster,” Rupert said. “There’s something wrong with the brakes and I told him to take it to town and have it looked over. Goodness only knows what time he’ll be back.”
“See here, Ralestone,” Holmes looked at his wrist-watch, “I’ve the car I hired here with me. Let me drive you in. Charity has to go, anyway, and see about sending off those sketches of hers.”
“Oh, but we were going together,” protested Ricky. “I have some shopping to do.”
“Very simple,” Val suggested. “Why don’t you all go?”
“But that would leave you alone.” Rupert shook his head.
“No. There’s Jeems.”
“I don’t know,” Rupert hesitated doubtfully.
“It doesn’t require more than one person to wait on me at present,” Val said firmly. “Now all of you go. But remember, I shall expect the Greeks to return bearing gifts.”
Holmes saluted. “Right you are, my hearty. Well, ladies, the chariot awaits without.”
In spite of their protests, Val at last got rid of them. Since he had a project of his own, he was only too glad to see the last of his oversolicitous family for awhile.
Val had never been able to understand why broken ribs or a fractured collar-bone should chain one to the bed. And since he had recovered from his wrenched back he was eager to be up and around. In private, with the protesting assistance of Sam Two, he had made a pilgrimage across the room and back. And now it was his full intention to be seated on the terrace when the family came home.
It was Lucy of all people who aided fortune to give him his opportunity.
“Mistuh Val,” she announced from the doorway as the sound of the car pulling out of the drive signaled the departure of the city-bound party, “dem lights is out agin.”
“Another fuse gone? That’s the second this week. Who’s been playing games?” he asked.
“Dis heah no-’count!” She dragged out of hiding from behind her voluminous skirts her second son, a chocolate-brown infant who rejoiced in the name of Gustavus Adolphus and was generally called “Doff.” At that moment he was sobbing noisily and eyeing Val as if the boy were the Grand High Executioner of Tartary. “Yo’all tell Mistuh Val whats yo’ bin a-doin’!” commanded his mother, emphasizing her order with a shake.
“Ain’t done nothin’,” wailed Doff. “Sam, he give me de penny an’ say, ‘Le’s hab fun.’ Den Ah puts de penny in de lil’ hole an’ den Mammy cotch me.”
“Doff seems to be the victim, Lucy,” Val observed. “Where’s Sam?”
“Ah don’ know. But I’se a-goin’ to fin’ out!” she stated with ominous determination. “How’s Ah a-goin’ to git mah ironin’ done when dere ain’t no heat fo’ de iron? Ah asks yo’ dat!”
“There are some fuses in the pantry and Jeems will put one in for you,” Val promised.
With a sniff Lucy withdrew, her fingers still hooked in the collar of her tearful son. Jeems glanced at Val as he went by the boy’s cot. And Val didn’t care for what he read into that glance. Had the swamper by any foul chance come to suspect Val’s little plan?
But it all turned out just as he had hoped. Val made that most momentous trip in four easy stages, resting on the big chair where Rupert had spent so many hours, on the bench by the window, in the first of the deck-chairs by the side of the French doors leading to the terrace, and then he reached the haven of the last deck-chair and settled down just where he had intended. And when Jeems returned there was nothing he could do but accept the fact that Val had fled the cot.
“Miss Ricky won’t like this,” he prophesied darkly. “Nor Mr. Rupert neither. Yo’ wouldn’t’ve tried it if they’d been heah.”
“Oh, stop worrying. If you’d been tied to that cot the way I’ve been, you’d be glad to get out here, too. It’s great!”
The sun was warm but the afternoon shadow of an oak overhung his seat so that Val escaped the direct force of the rays. A few feet away Satan sprawled full length, giving a fine imitation of a cat that had rid himself of all nine lives, or at least of eight and a half.
Never had the garden shown so rich a green. Ricky’s care had sharpened the lines of the flower-beds and had set shrubs in their proper places. And the plants had repaid her with a riot of blossoms. A breeze set the gray moss to swaying from the branches of the oak. And a green grasshopper crossed the terrace in four great leaps, almost scraping Satan’s ear in a fashion which might easily have been fatal to the insect. Val
sighed and slipped down lower in his chair. “It’s great,” he murmured again.
“Sure is,” Jeems echoed. He dropped down cross-legged beside Val, disdaining the other chair.
Satan stretched without opening his eyes and yawned, gaping to the fullest extent of his jaws and curling his tongue upward so that it seemed pointed like a snake’s. Then he rolled over on his other side and curled up with his paws under his chin. A bumblebee blundered by Val’s head on its way to visit the morning-glories. He suddenly discovered it difficult to keep his eyes open.
“Someone’s comin’,” observed Jeems. “Ah just heard a car turn in from the road.”
“But the folks have been gone such a short time,” Val protested.
However, the car which came almost noiselessly down the drive was not the one in which the family had departed. It had the shape of a sleek gray beetle, rounded so that it was difficult to tell at first glance the hood from the rear. It glided to a stop before the steps and after a moment four passengers disembarked.
Val simply stared, but Jeems got to his feet in one swift movement.
For, coming purposefully up the terrace steps, were four men they had seen before and had very good cause to remember for the rest of their lives.
In the lead strutted the rival, a tight smile rendering his unlovely features yet more disagreeable. Behind him trotted the red-faced counselor who had accompanied him on his first visit. But matching the rival step for step was the “Boss,” while “Red” brought up the rear in a tidy fashion.
“Swell place, ain’t it?” demanded the rival, taking no notice of Val or Jeems. “Make yourselves to home, boys; the place is yours.”
Val gripped the arm of his chair. Sam, Rupert, Holmes—they were all beyond call. It was left to him to meet this unbelievable invasion alone. There was a stir beside him. Val glanced up to meet the slightest of reassuring nods from the swamper. Jeems was with him.
“Whatcha gonna do with the joint, Brick?” asked Red, tossing his cigarette down on the flagstones and grinding it to powder with his heel.