Florence stirred, and we all searched the rippled water for a glimpse of whatever it was Mud Cat had seen. As we paused in the middle of the stream, the current caught the boat and swung it sideways. I leaned over the side of the boat. I’d seen something, too.
“There is something struggling in the water! It’s surely too large to be a—Joe, it’s a man!”
CHAPTER 20
“By George, if you ain’t right!” said Mud Cat Joe. “He’s about done up too!”
With a hard pull at the right oar, Joe sent the boat toward the struggling man. The man’s face had submerged; only a white hand fluttered weakly above the surface.
I tore off my shoes, and stood up in the boat, ready to dive overboard.
“Hold on,” said Mud Cat. “I’ll git him. Long as a man’s strugglin’, he ain’t drownin’.”
Joe was now close enough to thrust an oar toward the victim, but the drowning man was too spent to take hold of it. We pulled alongside, and Mud Cat managed to grasp the man by an arm.
“I got him,” he said grimly. “Steady now, or we’ll upset the boat.”
Mud Cat Joe was a heavy man, and the added weight of the limp figure very nearly capsized the craft, but Flo and I kept to the opposite side, trying to maintain balance. The boat wobbled and jerked convulsively. Finally, Mud Cat succeeded in pulling the man—who had ceased all movement—over the gunwale.
Joe stretched the man on the bottom of the boat, turning him so that his face was visible in the dim starlight.
“Jack!” I heard myself scream.
It felt like nothing short of a miracle that we’d found Jack, but he was in very poor shape. There was a deep gash across his forehead, and his breathing was light and fluttery.
“Your coat, Joe,” I said. “We must keep him as warm as we can.”
The riverman stripped off his coat, and I wrapped it about Jack’s own wet clothing.
“We must get him to a doctor,” I said to Mud Cat Joe, but the riverman was already rowing hard.
We were over-loaded, and the boat rode very low in the water. I held Jack’s hand and constantly checked his breathing. After a few minutes, he stirred. At first, I couldn’t tell what he was trying to say, as he was not yet fully conscious, but gradually his words became clearer.
“Eyes—” he murmured, “Flaming eyes—looking at me— looking at me—”
“He’s out of his head,” Florence said.
“Yes, I’m afraid he’s in bad condition. That gash in his head looks deep. I hope it won’t become infected from the dirty river water.”
There were no cabins or houses along this stretch of the Grassy. I scanned the shore for a sign of a light, and seeing none, decided that Jack must be taken either to Old Mansion or to Joe’s cottage. Facilities were much better at Old Mansion, but I thought it would be wiser to keep news of Jack’s reappearance from Mr. and Mrs. Conrad for as long as possible.
What had occurred in room seven on that eventful night of the party? Jack alone knew the answer. Whether or not the secret would remain forever locked in his brain, I could not guess. Jack had suffered some great shock, in addition to nearly drowning—I was no medical man, but I didn’t need to be to know Jack was in a bad way.
Jack was trying again to say something, and I bent closer to hear.
“Boat—Boat.”
“Yes, you’re in a boat,” I said as if speaking to a child. I rubbed his icy hands to restore circulation. “You’re with friends, Jack.”
Jack’s opened his eyes, then looked up at me without a trace of recognition.
“Boat,” he muttered again. “Houseboat.”
Jack’s eyelids closed again. His head rolled restlessly back and forth on the floor of the boat, but he spoke no more.
“Why you figger he said that?” asked Joe.
“I don’t know,” I said.
I thought about houseboat which Florence and I had seen in that cove on the Mulberry River only an hour earlier. The boat had mysteriously vanished. It must have taken to the main river once more. Was it possible that Jack had been held a prisoner aboard, and somehow had managed to escape? Yet, there had been no evidence of captives in the houseboat.
“The boat had two rooms, and Florence and I could not see into the one which was dark,” I said. “Jack could have been imprisoned there, but it doesn’t seem likely. Ralph appeared to be taking food to his friends.”
The possibility occurred to me that Jack while struggling in the water, battling to reach shore, might have seen the houseboat leave the mouth of the Mulberry River. Perhaps he had attempted to signal the boat, and failing, had believed that his only hope of rescue was gone. Such an experience would be likely to leave the houseboat imprinted indelibly upon his mind, and thus his strange mutterings could be explained. But with this theory there remained the disturbing question, why had Jack been in the water at all? Where had he been held a prisoner? And by whom?
“If Ralph did have anything to do with this, Clarence Emerson might not wish him to learn that Jack has been found,” I said. “Until I’ve talked with Dad, the best thing to do is to keep him under cover.”
I asked Mud Cat Joe if the reporter could be taken to the cottage, and he agreed to the plan.
I watched Jack anxiously as the boat made its slow progress up the river. I hoped that I hadn’t made the wrong decision. When we reached the cottage, I decided, I would summon a doctor at once, and if necessary, Jack could be taken away to a hospital.
“That feller looks purty well done in to me,” Mud Cat said as he pulled steadily at the oars. “I’ve fished plenty of ’em out of the river, but I never seen one act like him before.”
The boat, at last, scraped on the sandy beach beside Mud Cat Joe’s cottage.
“Bring a light, Jennie!” shouted the riverman.
As Mrs. Gains appeared in the doorway with a kerosene lamp, Mud Cat Joe hauled Jack from the boat, and we carried him into the cottage.
“Jennie, don’t stand there a-gapin’,” Mud Cat said to his wife. “Git some blankets and heat stones fer the bed.”
Jennie knew exactly what to do, for during her many years on the water, this was not the first time she had been called upon revive a victim of the river.
“You git them wet clothes off him,” she told her husband. “He kin have Jed’s bed.”
Jed was routed out of his snug nest, and he stood watching drowsy-eyed as his father rolled the stranger beneath the covers. Jennie heated stones in the oven, which she wrapped in towels and placed at Jack’s feet.
She robbed the other beds of blankets, observing: “They ain’t nothin’ better fer an ailin’ man than a good sweat.”
“I’ll go for a doctor,” I said.
We roused the village physician, Doctor Hamsted, from his warm bed and took him back to the cottage with us. Then we returned to the village once more, so that I could telephone my father.
“Jack has been found?” Dad’s voice broke. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a thousand years.”
“He’s in bad shape, Dad,” I said. “Doctor Hamsted is examining him now. I’m afraid of the verdict.”
“You stay there until I can come, Jane. We’ll have Jack moved to the Greenville hospital, and not spare the expense.”
When we returned to Mud Cat Joe’s cottage, Doctor Hamsted was just leaving.
“How is he, doctor?” I asked.
“His condition is grave. The man has suffered a great shock.”
“But he will recover?”
“He has a chance unless pneumonia should develop. However, his mind—” Doctor Hamsted gave a little shake of the head. “Well, he may improve after a lengthy rest. We will hope for the best. Have you any idea what happened to him?”
“We don’t know, Doctor. He was struggling in the river when we found him.”
“From the wound on his head, I assume he was struck a hard blow with a blunt object. The skull is not fractured. At least it appears so.”
&nbs
p; “My father is coming from Greenville,” I said. “He plans to take Mr. Bancroft to the hospital at once.”
“That would not be advisable, in my opinion. You will do the patient more harm by moving him, than by allowing him to remain.”
“But facilities are so limited here, Doctor.”
“Perhaps within twenty-four hours he may be transferred to a hospital,” said Doctor Hamsted, “but certainly not tonight. I shall try to locate a nurse. In the meanwhile, will you remain here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I have explained to Mrs. Gains about the medicine. There is very little that can be done except to give the patient complete rest.”
I stayed up for the remainder of the night by Jack’s bedside. Jack’s head had been neatly bandaged, and the white wrappings accentuated the ashen color of his skin. It was like looking at a stranger. The man on the bed did not seem like Jack Bancroft.
Jennie Gains closed off the doors leading to the bedroom, and herded her children into the other chamber, insisting that they create no disturbance.
An unnatural silence fell upon the little cottage. Now and then, I heard Mud Cat Joe or his wife tiptoe across the kitchen floor, but they did not enter the room where Jack lay.
The only light came from the oil lamp on the dresser which cast grotesque shadows on the plaster walls. At infrequent intervals, Jack stirred, muttering words which I could not understand.
Flo was asleep in an armchair, but I sat with folded hands, watching Jack, my heart leaping into my throat every time he made the slightest movement. I wished the nurse would come.
I heard a sound outside the window. Someone was walking along the gravel path. It was probably the nurse, I thought, although I had not heard a car drive up. It could not be my father. There had not been time for him to reach White Falls.
I reached over to rearrange the blanket which Jack’s fluttering hands had disturbed. I sat back down again, listening for the nurse to enter the house. I felt uneasy as if I were being watched by hostile eyes.
It was just nerves, I told myself, but when I looked again at the room’s only small window, bare of curtains, I stiffened in my chair. Someone was outside looking in.
CHAPTER 21
The face vanished so quickly that there was only one thing I was sure of, it had been the face of a man. A cold chill passed over me. The man at the window had been staring, not at me, but at Jack, as he lay on the bed.
I ran to the cottage door, not taking the time to wake Flo. No one was in sight. I went out into the cool night air and quickly did a circuit around the cottage. The yard was deserted, and the only sound came from the bullfrogs down by the river.
I knew I should go back and wake Joe—or at the very least retrieve the cosh I kept tucked into the bottom of my handbag—but I paused to look down by the dense bushes overhanging the river banks. It was the perfect spot for a prowler to lurk, but I dared not beat the bushes on my own.
I knew what I had seen, and even if I’d had any doubts, those would have been dispelled by the large footprints embedded in the soft earth underneath the bedroom window.
With a final uneasy glance toward the river, I retreated to the cottage and woke up Mud Cat Joe.
“I’ll have a look around,” he said, reaching for his lantern. “Maybe ’twas only Silas Slocum you saw. He’s a feller to go prowlin’ around at night, takin’ care of his nets.”
Mud Cat made the rounds, returning to report he could find no one near the cottage. I said no more and resumed my vigil by Jack’s bedside, but I did not believe the prowler had been Silas Slocum.
Later, when Flo woke up, I told her about the face at the window.
“Is it safe for Jack to remain here?” Florence asked.
“Probably not very, but until the doctor says he can be moved, we’d better not do otherwise.”
“At least Jack should be well guarded,” Flo said.
“Yes, I mean to talk with Dad about it when he comes.”
“Jack must have gone through a dreadful experience. What do you suppose happened to him?”
“I wish I knew. It’s not certain if we ever shall.”
An hour later, Dad arrived at the cottage. He was taken aback at Jack’s condition. I’d tried to prepare him, over the telephone, but he’d obviously not fully grasped the seriousness of the situation until presented with it face-to-face.
“I’ll get the fiends who did this if it’s the last act of my life!” Dad said. “Has he tried to talk, Jane?”
“Yes, but he’s not very coherent. He keeps repeating the word ‘houseboat,’ and something nonsensical about flaming eyes.”
I was so weary, I let Dad take charge. He was disappointed that Jack could not be removed at once to a hospital, but in his usual efficient way, he quietly made the best of the situation. The nurse finally arrived, and Mud Cat Joe patrolled the yard.
I wanted to stay, but Dad insisted that Flo—who’d at least snatched a few winks in an armchair—drive me home. I protested, but Dad prevailed. Flo and I returned to Greenville, arriving a few hours before dawn.
When I awoke the next morning, the events of the night seemed unreal, yet my aching joint and muscles were evidence otherwise.
I had intended to wake early and motor back to White Falls, but instead, I’d slept until well past dawn. I was just finishing breakfast when the doorbell rang.
“That may be someone with a message about Jack,” I said to Mrs. Timms. “I’ll answer.”
I ran to the door. On the doorstep was an elderly, well-dressed lady.
“Are you by chance Miss Jane Carter?”
“Mrs. Carter, actually,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.”
The woman sat down on the davenport, loosening her wraps.
“I am Mrs. Fairchild,” she said. “You sent me a telegram, I believe.”
“I did.”
“Your information alarmed me exceedingly, Mrs. Carter. I had planned a trip back here for some months, so when I received your message, I decided to start at once. Tell me, did you not exaggerate the situation at Old Mansion?”
“I did not, Mrs. Fairchild. If anything, I kept serious matters from you. Have you talked with the Conrads or Clarence Emerson?”
“No, I came directly here from the railroad station,” Mrs. Fairchild replied.
“Then I urge you go to Old Mansion at once.”
“Just what is wrong there?” Mrs. Fairchild looked alarmed. “You speak so seriously.”
“I prefer to have Clarence Emerson tell you everything.”
“And who is Mr. Emerson?”
“A detective.”
“Now you do alarm me,” said Mrs. Fairchild.
“I am going to White Falls momentarily,” I said. “If you wish, I’ll take you to Old Mansion.”
Within half an hour, Mrs. Fairchild and I were motoring toward White Falls. Mrs. Fairchild was chatty, so I ventured to ask if she had any other property near White Falls. I was not surprised to learn that the shed formerly occupied by the Mud Cat Joe and his family never had belonged to Glen Conrad.
“I am ashamed of the man for turning a poor family from the place,” Mrs. Fairchild said when I’d explained what had happened.
“Mr. Conrad has done other things, too, which I fear will never meet with your approval,” I said. “The Conrads have turned Old Mansion into a hotel.”
“Indeed! Well, we shall see about that. My valuable paintings might have been stolen!”
I had my own opinion of Mrs. Fairchild’s valuable pictures, but I kept it to myself.
Dad had informed me that Glen Conrad and his wife were allowed the freedom to move freely inside Old Mansion, although Clarence Emerson or one of his men watched them constantly. I imagined they deeply resented the arrangement and had accepted it solely because refusal would mean they would be turned over to the police.
As we drove up to the house, Mrs. Fairchild remarked that since her absence the river
had cut deeply into the rear yard. She was displeased by the run-down appearance of Old Mansion, mentioning that only the previous year she had sent the Conrads money to have it painted.
“You did right to send me that telegram, Mrs. Carter,” she said. “I have been cheated outrageously.”
She looked at the laundry adjoining the mansion.
“Such an ugly structure! The city fathers never should have allowed the builder to jam it close to my house. It completely ruins the property.”
“It doesn’t improve it,” I said. “However, I imagined you knew the building had been erected.”
“No, it has been put up since I left White Falls.”
We entered the house, and there Mrs. Fairchild’s indignation mounted to a fever pitch. She wandered from room to room, exclaiming at the damage done to her antique furniture.
Suddenly she paused before one of the paintings in the library.
“Roll up the window shade, please,” she said.
I obeyed, and the bright sunlight flooding into the room made the painting look more hideous than ever. Mrs. Fairchild moved a step nearer, running her hand over the canvas. Then she turned to me, her eyes flashing.
“This is only a crude copy of the original portrait!” she declared. “I’ve been robbed!”
CHAPTER 22
Mrs. Fairchild went from room to room of Old Mansion, examining the paintings. In the parlor, she found one which she declared was an original, but all the others were cheap imitations.
“I hired the Conrads to protect my portraits, and this is the way they betrayed my trust!”
“I don’t wonder you are indignant,” I said. “How valuable were the paintings?”
“At a conservative estimate, thirty thousand dollars. Where are the Conrads now?”
“They should be somewhere in the house,” I said.
As she spoke, the kitchen door slammed. A few seconds later Emma Brown came into the room.
“I’m very glad to see you, Jane,” she said. “I was just talking with Clarence Emerson outside the house. He tells me there no longer is any need for me to remain here.”
Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 11