Seven Keys to Baldpate

by Earl Derr Biggers

  CHAPTER IV

  A PROFESSIONAL HERMIT APPEARS

  Every morning at eight, when slumber's chains had bound Mr. Magee in hisNew York apartments, he was awakened by a pompous valet named Geoffreywhom he shared with the other young men in the building. It wasGeoffrey's custom to enter, raise the curtains, and speak of the weatherin a voice vibrant with feeling, as of something he had prepared himselfand was anxious to have Mr. Magee try. So, when a rattling noise came tohis ear on his first morning at Baldpate Inn, Mr. Magee breathedsleepily from the covers: "Good morning, Geoffrey."

  But no cheery voice replied in terms of sun, wind, or rain. Surprised,Mr. Magee sat up in bed. About him, the maple-wood furniture of suiteseven stood shivering in the chill of a December morning. Through thedoor at his left he caught sight of a white tub into which, he recalledsadly, not even a Geoffrey could coax a glittering drop. Yes--he was atBaldpate Inn. He remembered--the climb with the dazed Quimby up thesnowy road, the plaint of the lovelorn haberdasher, the vagaries of theprofessor with a penchant for blondes, the mysterious click of thedoor-latch on the floor above. And last of all--strange that it shouldhave been last--a girl in blue corduroy somewhat darker than her eyes,who wept amid the station's gloom.

  "I wonder," reflected Mr. Magee, staring at the very brassy bars at thefoot of his bed, "what new variations on seclusion the day will bringforth?"

  Again came the rattling noise that had awakened him. He looked towardthe nearest window, and through an unfrosted corner of the pane he sawthe eyes of the newest variation staring at him in wonder. They weredark eyes, and kindly; they spoke a desire to enter.

  Rising from his warm retreat, Mr. Magee took his shivering way acrossthe uncarpeted floor and unfastened the window's catch. From theblustering balcony a plump little man stepped inside. He had a marketbasket on his arm. His face was a stranger to razors; his hair toshears. He reminded Mr. Magee of the celebrated doctor who came everyyear to the small town of his boyhood, there to sell a wonderful healingherb to the crowds on the street corner.

  Magee dived hastily back under the covers. "Well?" he questioned.

  "So you're the fellow," remarked the little man in awe. He placed thebasket on the floor; it appeared to be filled with bromidic groceries,such as the most subdued householder carries home.

  "Which fellow?" asked Mr. Magee.

  "The fellow Elijah Quimby told me about," explained he of the long brownlocks. "The fellow that's come up to Baldpate Inn to be alone with histhoughts."

  "You're one of the villagers, I take it," guessed Mr. Magee.

  "You're dead wrong. I'm no villager. My instincts are all in the otherdirection--away from the crowd. I live up near the top of Baldpate, in alittle shack I built myself. My name's Peters--Jake Peters--in thewinter. But in the summer, when the inn's open, and the red and whiteawnings are out, and the band plays in the casino every night--then I'mthe Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. I come down here and sell picturepost-cards of myself to the ladies."

  Mr. Magee appeared overcome with mirth.

  "A professional hermit, by the gods!" he cried. "Say, I didn't knowBaldpate Mountain was fitted up with all the modern improvements. Thisis great luck. I'm an amateur at the hermit business, you'll have toteach me the fine points. Sit down."

  "Just between ourselves, I'm not a regular hermit," said the plumpbewhiskered one, sitting gingerly on the edge of a frail chair. "Not oneof these 'all for love of a woman' hermits you read about in books. Ofcourse, I have to pretend I am, in summer, in order to sell the cardsand do my whole duty by the inn management. A lot of the women ask me insoft tones about the great disappointment that drove me to old Baldpate,and I give 'em various answers, according to how I feel. Speaking to youas a friend, and considering the fact that it's the dead of winter, Imay say there was little or no romance in my life. I married early, andstayed married a long time. I came up here for peace and quiet, andbecause I felt a man ought to read something besides time-tables andtradesmen's bills, and have something over his head besides a first andsecond mortgage."

  "Back to nature, in other words," remarked Mr. Magee.

  "Yes, sir--back with a rush. I was down to the village this morning fora few groceries, and I stopped off at Quimby's, as I often do. He toldme about you. I help him a lot around the inn, and we arranged I was tostop in and start your fire, and do any other little errands you mightwant done. I thought we ought to get acquainted, you and me, being aswe're both literary men, after a manner of speaking."

  "No?" cried Mr. Magee.

  "Yes," said the Hermit of Baldpate. "I dip into that work a little nowand then. Some of my verses on the joys of solitude have appeared inprint--on the post-cards I sell to the guests in the summer. But mylife-work, as you might call it, is a book I've had under way for sometime. It's called simply _Woman_. Just that one word--but, oh, themeaning in it! That book is going to prove that all the trouble in theworld, from the beginning of time, was caused by females. Not just sayso, mind you. Prove it!"

  "A difficult task, I'm afraid," smiled Magee.

  "Not difficult--long," corrected the hermit. "When I started out, fouryears ago, I thought it would just be a case of a chapter on Eve, andhonorable mention for Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, and a few more likethat, and the thing would be done. But as I got into the subject, I wasfairly buried under new evidence. Then Mr. Carnegie came along and gaveUpper Asquewan Falls a library. It's wonderful to think the great worksthat man will be responsible for. I've dedicated _Woman_ to him. Sincethe new library, I've dug up information about a thousand disasters Inever dreamed of before, and I contend that if you go back a ways in anyone of 'em, you'll find the fluffy little lady that started the wholerumpus. So I hunt the woman. I reckon the French would call me thegreatest _cherchez la femme_ in history."

  "A fascinating pursuit," laughed Mr. Magee. "I'm glad you've told meabout it, and I shall watch the progress of the work with interest.Although I can't say that I entirely agree with you. Here and there is awoman who more than makes amends for whatever trouble her sisters havecaused. One, for instance, with golden hair, and eyes that when theyweep--"

  "You're young," interrupted the little man, rising. "There ain't no useto debate it with you. I might as well try to argue with a storm at sea.Some men keep the illusion to the end of their days, and I hope you'reone. I reckon I'll start your fire."

  He went into the outer room, and Mr. Magee lay for a few momentslistening to his preparations about the fireplace. This was comfort, hethought. And yet, something was wrong. Was it the growing feeling ofemptiness inside? Undoubtedly. He sat up in bed and leaning over, gazedinto the hermit's basket. The packages he saw there made his feeling ofemptiness the more acute.

  "I say, Mr. Peters," he cried, leaping from bed and running into theother room, where the hermit was persuading a faint blaze, "I've anidea. You can cook, can't you?"

  "Cook?" repeated the hermit. "Well, yes, I've had to learn a few thingsabout it, living far from the rathskellars the way I do."

  "The very man," rejoiced Mr. Magee. "You must stay here and cook forme--for us."

  "Us?" asked the hermit, staring.

  "Yes. I forgot to tell you. After Mr. Quimby left me last night, twoother amateur hermits hove in view. One is a haberdasher with a brokenheart--"

  "Woman," cried the triumphant Peters.

  "Name, Arabella," laughed Magee. "The other's a college professor whomade an indiscreet remark about blondes. You won't mind them, I'm sure,and they may be able to help you a lot with your great work."

  "I don't know what Quimby will say," studied the hermit. "I reckon he'llrun 'em out. He's against this thing--afraid of fire."

  "Quimby will come later," Mr. Magee assured him, drawing on adressing-gown. "Just now the idea is a little water in yonder tub, and anice cheerful breakfast after. It's going to pay you a lot better thanselling post-cards to romantic ladies, I promise you. I won't take youaway from a work for which the world is panting without more than makingit up to
you financially. Where do you stand as a coffee maker?"

  "Wait till you taste it," said Peters reassuringly. "I'll bring you upsome water."

  He started for the door, but Mr. Magee preceded him.

  "The haberdasher," he explained, "sleeps below, and he's a nervous man.He might commit the awful error of shooting the only cook on BaldpateMountain."

  Mr. Magee went out into the hall and called from the depths the figureof Bland, fully attired in his flashy garments, and looking tawdry andtired in the morning light.

  "I've been up hours," he remarked. "Heard somebody knocking round thekitchen, but I ain't seen any breakfast brought in on a silver tray. Myinside feels like the Mammoth Cave."

  Mr. Magee introduced the Hermit of Baldpate.

  "Pleased to meet you," said Bland. "I guess it was you I heard in thekitchen. So you're going to cater to this select few, are you? Believeme, you can't get on the job any too soon to suit me."

  Out of a near-by door stepped the black-garbed figure of ProfessorThaddeus Bolton, and him Mr. Magee included in the presentationceremonies. After the hermit had disappeared below, burdened with hismarket basket and the supplies Mr. Magee had brought the night before,the three amateurs at the hermit game gathered by the fire in numberseven, and Mr. Bland spoke feelingly:

  "I don't know where you plucked that cook, but believe me, you get avote of thanks from yours truly. What is he--an advertisement for a hairrestorer?"

  "He's a hermit," explained Magee, "and lives in a shack near themountain-top. Hermits and barbers aren't supposed to mix. He's also anauthor, and is writing a book in which he lays all the trouble of theages at the feet of woman. Please treat him with the respect all thesedignified activities demand."

  "A writer, you say," commented Professor Bolton. "Let us hope it willnot interfere with his cooking abilities. For even I, who am not muchgiven to thought about material things, must admit the presence of agnawing hunger within."

  They talked little, being men unfed, while Jake Peters startedproceedings in the kitchen, and tramped up-stairs with many pails ofwater. Mr. Magee requested warm water for shaving; whereupon he wasregarded with mingled emotions by his companions.

  "You ain't going to see any skirts up here," Mr. Bland promised him. AndMr. Peters, bringing the water from below, took occasion to point outthat shaving was one of man's troubles directly attributable to woman'spresence in the world.

  At length the hermit summoned them to breakfast, and as they descendedthe broad stair the heavenly odor of coffee sent a glow to their hearts.Peters had built a rousing fire in the big fireplace opposite theclerk's desk in the office, and in front of this he had placed a tablewhich held promise of a satisfactory breakfast. As the three sat down,Mr. Bland spoke:

  "I don't know about you, gentlemen, but I could fall on Mr. Peters' neckand call him blessed."

  The gentleman thus referred to served them genially. He brought to Mr.Magee, between whom and himself he recognized the tie of authorship, acopy of a New York paper that he claimed to get each morning from thestation agent, and which helped him greatly, he said, in his eternalsearch for the woman. As the meal passed, Mr. Magee glanced it through.Twice he looked up from it to study keenly his queer companions atBaldpate Inn. Finally he handed it across the table to the haberdasher.The dull yellow sun of a winter morning drifted in from the whiteoutdoors; the fire sputtered gaily in the grate. Also, Mr. Peters'failing for literature interfered in no way with his talents as cook.The three finished the repast in great good humor, and Mr. Magee handedround cigars.

  "Gentlemen," he remarked, pushing back his chair, "we find ourselves ina peculiar position. Three lone men, knowing nothing of one another, wehave sought the solitude of Baldpate Inn at almost the same moment. Why?Last night, before you came, Professor Bolton, Mr. Bland gave me as hisreason for being here the story of Arabella, which I afterwardappropriated as a joke and gave as my own reason. I related to Mr. Blandthe fiction about the artist and the besieging novelists. We swappedstories when you came--it was our merry little method of doubting eachother's word. Perhaps it was bad taste. At any rate, looking at it inthe morning light, I am inclined to return Mr. Bland's Arabella, and noquestions asked. He is again the lovelorn haberdasher. I am inclined tobelieve, implicitly, your story. That is my proposition. No doubts ofone another. We are here for whatever reasons we say we are."

  The professor nodded gravely.

  "Last night," went on Mr. Magee, "there was some talk between Mr. Blandand myself about one of us leaving the inn. Mr. Bland demanded it. Itrust he sees the matter differently this morning. I for one should besorry to see him go."

  "I've changed my mind," said Mr. Bland. The look on his thin face wasnot a pleasant one. "Very good," went on Mr. Magee. "I see no reason whywe should not proceed on friendly terms. Mr. Peters has agreed to cookfor us. He can no doubt be persuaded to attend to our other wants. Forhis services we shall pay him generously, in view of the circumstances.As for Quimby--I leave you to make your peace with him."

  "I have a letter to Mr. Quimby from my old friend, John Bentley," saidthe professor, "which I am sure will win me the caretaker's warmregard."

  Mr. Magee looked at Bland.

  "I'll get Andy Rutter on the wire," said that gentleman. "Quimby willlisten to him, I guess."

  "Maybe," remarked Magee carelessly. "Who is Rutter?"

  "He's manager of the inn when it's open," answered Bland. He lookedsuspiciously at Magee. "I only know him slightly," he added.

  "Those matters you will arrange for yourselves," Mr. Magee went on. "Ishall be very glad of your company if you can fix it to stay. Believe itor not--I forgot, we agreed to believe, didn't we?--I am here to do somewriting. I'm going up to my room now to do a little work. All I ask ofyou gentlemen is that, as a favor to me, you refrain from shooting ateach other while I am gone. You see, I am trying to keep crude melodramaout of my stuff."

  "I am sure," remarked Professor Bolton, "that the use of firearms as ameans of social diversion between Mr. Bland and myself is unthought of."

  "I hope so," responded Magee. "There, then, the matter rests. We arehere--that is all." He hesitated, as though in doubt. Then, with adecisive motion, he drew toward him the New York paper. With his eyes onthe head-lines of the first page, he continued: "I shall demand nofurther explanations. And except for this once, I shall make noreference to this story in the newspaper, to the effect that earlyyesterday morning, in a laboratory at one of our leading universities, ayoung assistant instructor was found dead under peculiar circumstances."He glanced keenly at the bald-headed little man across from him. "Norshall I make conversation of the fact," he added, "that the professor ofchemistry at the university, a man past middle age, respected highly inthe university circle, is missing."

  An oppressive silence followed this remark. Mr. Bland's sly eyes soughtquickly the professor's face. The older man sat staring at his plate;then he raised his head and the round spectacles were turned full onMagee.

  "You are very kind," said Professor Bolton evenly.

  "There is another story in this paper," went on Mr. Magee, glancing atthe haberdasher, "that, it seems to me, I ought to taboo as table talkat Baldpate Inn. It relates that a few days ago the youthful cashier ofa bank in a small Pennsylvania town disappeared with thirty thousanddollars of the bank's funds. No," he concluded, "we are simply here,gentlemen, and I am very glad to let it go at that."

  Mr. Bland sneered knowingly.

  "I should think you would be," he said. "If you'll turn that paper overyou'll read on the back page that day before yesterday a lot ofexpensive paintings in a New York millionaire's house were cut fromtheir frames, and that the young artist who was doing retouching in thehouse at the time has been just careless enough not to send his addressto the police. It's a small matter, of course, and the professor and Iwill never mention it again."

  Mr. Magee threw back his head and laughed heartily.

  "We understand one another, it seems," he said. "I look
forward topleasant companionship where I had expected solitude. You will excuse menow--there is the work to which I referred. Ah, here's Peters," he addedas the hermit entered through the dining-room door at the side of thestairs.

  "All finished, gentlemen?" he asked, coming forward. "Now, this is solidcomfort, ain't it? I reckon when you get a few days of this, you'll allbecome hermits, and build yourselves shacks on the mountain. Solidcomfort. No woman to make you put on overshoes when you go out, orlecture you about the effects of alcohol on the stomach. Heaven, I callit."

  "Peters," said Mr. Magee, "we have been wondering if you will stay onhere and cook for us. We need you. How about it?"

  "Well--I'll be glad to help you out," the hermit replied. "I guess I canmanage to give satisfaction, seeing there ain't no women around. Ifthere was, I wouldn't think of it. Yes, I'll stay and do what I can toboost the hermit life in your estimation. I--"

  He stopped. His eyes were on the dining-room door, toward which Mr.Magee's back was turned. The jaw of Peters fell, and his mouth stoodwide open. Behind the underbrush of beard a very surprised face wasdiscernible.

  Mr. Magee turned quickly. A few feet inside the door stood the girl ofthe station, weeping no more, but radiant with smiles. Back of her wasthe determined impossible companion of yesterday.

  "Oh, mamma," laughed the girl, "we're too late for breakfast! Isn't it ashame?"

  Mr. Bland's lean hands went quickly to adjust his purple tie. ProfessorBolton looked every inch the owl as he blinked in dazed fashion at theblue corduroy vision. Gingerly Mr. Peters set down the plates he hadtaken from the table, still neglecting his open mouth.

  Mr. Magee rose from the table, and went forward with outstretched hand.