Adventure Tales, Volume 4

by Seabury Quinn

  Annie had fixed up a comfortable cot for him on the sofa in the parlor; at his request, the blinds were drawn, all the windows closed. He placed his grip in a little cupboard, and carefully re­moved all traces of his presence.

  “Not a word to the sheriff, if he calls, nor to anyone else!” he warned, “You won’t have to lie, for nobody suspects my presence, and nobody but the district attorney knows that we are in on the case at all. I have made arrangements to communicate with him, and to for­ward my reports to Boston.”

  Shortly after darkness had fallen, Sanford Teller, with the furtiveness that delighted Annie as the proper at­titude of a sleuth, crept from the house by the kitchen door, and after peering up and down for some moments, darted across the strip of rough ground and was lost to sight in the cedar grove.

  “It isn’t the simple life we expected, but isn’t it just too thrilling?” Annie chattered as they climbed the narrow stairway to their chambers. “Like one of these mystery plays, only lots more real!”

  CHAPTER IV: GOLD BEADS

  Annie was awakened by a sunbeam which found its way in through a chink in the blinds and struck her full in the eye. Her first thought was of their strange guest.

  “Good gracious! And he wanted to get into the house unseen. We never thought to leave the kitchen door un­locked, nor to give him the key!”

  She hastily threw on a loose robe, and pattered into the front room where her husband still slept. She shook his shoulder impatiently, and as his eyes opened lazily, she cried: “Oh, Frank! That poor Mr. Teller must be hiding out in the cedar grove, waiting for us to let him in!”

  But the resourceful Teller was doing nothing of the sort. When Weston had hastily donned some clothes and slipped downstairs, he heard through the par­lor door the deep respirations of a sleeping man; and, cautiously peering within, he beheld the detective reposing on his couch, the blanket drawn up to his eyebrows. Leaving him in peace, Weston passed on to the kitchen and tried the door. It was locked; as were all the windows. Returning to the up­per floor, he told Annie what he had found.

  Both now dressed fully, and Annie set the coffeepot on and got out the eggs and began to toast bread. Weston meanwhile knocked at the parlor door. And at the first tap of his knuckles, Sanford Teller sat abruptly up in his bed, his eyes wide awake and alert. Weston grinned.

  “We were afraid we’d locked you out, and overslept! How on earth did you manage to get in?”

  Teller laughed cheerily, and rose in a pair of sky-blue pajamas, stretching his arms luxuriously. “Getting into locked houses is the easiest part of my profession, Weston! Truth is, we have a lot of tricks in common with crooks. I forgot to speak about leaving the kitchen key where I could find it when I returned about half past three; but that didn’t matter. I judge that I didn’t disturb you or Mrs. Weston when I came in and very quietly went to bed?”

  “No, but you disturbed her when she awoke and remembered that you wanted to come back here in the dark, before any one passing by could see you! You hurry up and get washed and dressed; breakfast is ’most ready. And while we’re eating it you can tell her how you managed to get in.”

  Teller grinned. “I don’t know about that! It don’t do to tell too much. Got to hold some things back, or there won’t be anything mysterious about me. And that would be fatal to the repu­tation of a detective, you know!”

  But under the mellow influence of hot coffee and fresh-boiled eggs and buttered toast that wasn’t burned the least little bit, he yielded, and showed them a long, slim skeleton key, one of a bunch he kept on a ring.

  “There are probably some doors and drawers in this county that this col­lection wouldn’t open,” he admitted. “But I doubt if there are any in Fast Harbor! Better watch out for your spoons and jewelry, Mrs. Weston!”

  “The spoons go with the house, and are guaranteed to be silver plated,” Annie assured him. “And as for jewelry, you’ll have to go to New York and pick the lock in my safety-deposit box to get that. Unless my wedding ring tempts you.’’

  Teller bowed gallantly. “Only to the extent of wishing it might have been given to you by me, madam!”

  “Why, how perfectly sweet of you! Frank never says such nice things to me.”

  “No, but Frank bought the wedding ring!” her husband reminded her.

  It was a cheerful meal and, after it was finished, Teller insisted that it had waked him up so thoroughly that he didn’t feel inclined to finish his nap, which he would postpone until later in the day.

  When the dishes were done, they gathered about the table in the parlor, careful to keep the windows shut. Wes­ton himself sat where, through a crack in the blinds, he could observe any one approaching the house.

  “Of course, I haven’t anything to re­port as yet,” Teller stated. “I devoted last night to looking over the sites where the crimes took place. And let me tell you, the woods were swarming with amateur detectives! Everybody but the bedridden—that is, every man—in this neck of the woods is out for that five hundred dollars’ reward! Some carry lanterns, a few have pocket torches, and one or two of the local constables go without any lights at all; they are the only ones that worried me. They really do know a lot about tracking; they don’t make much noise as they move about, and most of them can shoot fast and straight. But I managed to get what I wanted without being seen or heard; although once or twice I almost brushed elbows with some silent patrol.”

  He spread out on the table a large road map of the country. Taking from his vest pocket a soft red pencil, he began to mark certain crosses and ar­rows and lines upon the map.

  “Here, you will note, is the location of the Bronson place; and this, a few miles beyond Cranberry Beach, is old Tucker’s cabin. Here is the cottage that was broken into; nobody living there, you remember. It was while scouting about it that I had my narrowest escape. Cautious as I was, some guard must have caught a glimpse of me; anyhow, first thing I knew a gunshot raised the hair on my head! Buckshot, the fellow was using; it pat­tered onto the cottage wall not a foot above my head. I was scared stiff, but not hurt. Dropped flat, and crawled off to a great lilac bush, and from there gained the road. I never saw the man who shot at me, but could hear him thrashing about hunting for me.”

  Annie drew her breath sharply. “But you run terrible risks! Wouldn’t it be better to let the sheriff know who you are, rather than be killed through an error?”

  The little man shook his head vigor­ously. “That’s a risk I’ve got to take. It’s all in the day’s work, or rather, the night’s work! Once I am known, my usefulness ends. Everybody will be tagging me about, and the criminal will know I am coming a mile before I’m in sight, Might as well hire a brass band to accompany me! No, my only chance of capturing lies in my remaining incog­nito. But, look!”

  He pointed to the map. “By setting down every single site connected with the crimes, we get the first necessary layout of the field of battle. This map, revised from day to day, shows the precise range of the bandit’s activities. This is the sort of thing the postal agents work out when there is an epidemic of stolen mail. Every time a loss is reported, a mark is made on the map; and in time, by an intricate system of geometrical cross-lines, we manage to locate the headquarters of the gang. That is something I hope to do with this lone ruffian, if he remains undetected long enough to commit a series of crimes.”

  He refolded the map, and pocketed it.

  “And that is absolutely all I have to tell you,” he said. “Can’t expect definite results the first night! This sort of chase is likely to prove a long, stern one. But I don’t mind telling you this purely theoretical notion of mine: when found, the bandit will prove to me a man known to a good many residents hereabouts. You see, it is always hard for us to believe that anybody we have known well and for a long time, is an actual criminal. We may detest him, admit that he is mean, selfish, un­popular, a tax evader, even a chicken thief, but a murderer? No! Because the very instinct of self-preservation keeps us fro
m admitting that we could possibly live within sight of the home of a murderer!”

  “You mean,” Weston asked, “that this bandit actually lives within sight of where we are?”

  “Not quite that; but I do feel that the perfectly natural instinct of at­tributing any atrocious crime to a stranger, somebody from far away, is not to be trusted too far. Without hampering myself by any preconceived ideas, I shall, among other things, scrutinize our neighbors pretty closely. Who had the best opportunity to terrorize the Bronson woman, and old Tucker? Who knew that the summer cottage down the shore was unoccu­pied? Who knows the wilderness about here well enough to so far evade trained guides? Who is able to hide out and obtain food without being de­tected? Certainly, no stranger, who would be lost within half an hour of the time he entered the great cedar swamp! And more certainly yet, no city-bred man. No, I shall make it one of my first duties to look over the local peasantry! Some queer characters live in lonesome little hamlets like this. The very isolation preys on their minds; they become abnormal. And everything indicates that the man I am after is not normal; he is the victim of some overwhelming homicidal mania. I hope I am wrong; but I never allow senti­ment to interfere with my professional duty.”

  Nothing of further interest occurred that day, save a brief visit from Sheriff Joe Thomas, who alighted from his car and came to the door for a brief word. He looked worn and drawn, and as if he had sacrificed a lot of sleep.

  “Heard or seen anything, Mr. Weston? No? Well, I don’t expect you will. Did you happen to hear a gun­shot last night? Doubt if it would carry this far; wind was in wrong direction. One of my men thought he saw some­thing moving about the Barn­ard cot­tage; the one that was broken into. He was taking no chances, so he let a charge of double-b’s at it. Heard noth­ing, and didn’t see anything more. But this morning I found some broken twigs and the faintest impression of foot tracks around the cottage. Ground is hard there, and I couldn’t get any impressions. Reckon it might have been some curiosity seeker. Don’t think the bandit would be fool enough to re­turn, especially since he had time enough to take anything he wanted the first trip. Must be on my way, now. Sorry your vacation is being knocked galley west this way!”

  Sanford Teller had listened to the sheriff with quiet amusement. When he had gone, he emerged from the par­lor and spoke.

  “Your sheriff would be surprised to learn that the man his deputy tried to pot, is about to sit down to dinner with you and your wife, wouldn’t he?”

  “He’d be more than surprised,” Weston mumbled. “He’d certainly give me a fine bawling-out for not telling him!”

  “You’ll never be really popular with Thomas,” Teller decided. “When I nail my man—if I do—the sheriff will be sore as a pup to think that it was done over his head. But such are the dark and devious ways of the Wallis Agency!”

  There followed two highly exciting days for the Westons and indeed for the entire countryside. On two succes­sive nights, fresh outrages occurred. Fortunately, there were no deaths; but this was not owing to any clemency on the part of the marauder. In one case, the chance arrival of a visitor inter­rupted him as he was tying up a crip­pled fisherman and his wife, after lay­ing the former low with a stout chair swung about his head; in the other in­stance, he waylaid a motorist who had got lost, and run out of gas in an aban­doned wood road. This man, who was young and vigorous though unarmed, did not suspect the friendly-appearing stranger who appeared afoot, and paused to inquire if he could be of as­sistance. However, the stranger with­out warning struck him a terrible blow on the head with a stout cudgel he was using as a walking stick. Dazed, and unable to put up a fight, the man’s pockets were rifled, and when some time toward dawn one of the sheriff’s men found him, these were all the details he was able to give. Yes, the man wore a handkerchief about his neck, but it was not used as a mask. And the sudden blow, which had just failed to cause a fracture of the skull, left him in too confused a state to give any clear de­scription of his assailant.

  Both of these incidents were re­counted to Weston by Jason Hodge, who got them by telephone. Weston detailed them to the keenly interested Teller, who marked them with red crosses on his gradually developing map. Meanwhile, the detective himself had at last something of his own to relate.

  Despite the fact that he could let himself in with his skeleton key, and did so noiselessly, promptly going to bed until breakfast time, neither Weston nor his wife was able to sleep well toward dawn. They were on the alert to hear some slight sound indicating the return of the little sleuth. There was something uncanny in lying upstairs wrapped in pro­found slumber, while this man entered their supposedly impregnable house, and went to bed, without making any noise about it, There was, too, the constant fear lest he be shot by one of the deputies during his nocturnal prowlings. Were this to happen, it would be Weston’s unpleasant duty to explain to the authorities who he was, and that he had been harbored by them. Not to speak of Weston’s liking for the pleasant, cheery little investigator, he foresaw himself as the center of most unpleasant inquiry and criticism.

  But Sanford Teller seemed to bear a charmed life. He passed unscathed through a country thickly dotted with keen men, some of whom were profes­sional guides, and all of whom had abnormally good eyes and ears. And despite his handicap of working alone, and in the night, he was making progress, He had, so he explained to the Westons, accumulated a number of finger prints in and about the various scenes of the outrages. He had found a crimson-stained handkerchief, with an initial, a mile from the Bronson place, and although this so far only indicated to him the route taken by the bandit, he had hopes of gaining more information from it. And most sensational of all, on the evening of the fourth day, just after supper and while he was waiting for darkness to mask his operations, he showed them something that sent the cold shivers up Annie’s spine, and even caused the little hairs to stir on the scalp of the more phlegmatic Frank,

  “This is graveyard stuff,” whispered Teller when they had huddled about his parlor table. “I am really violating my obligations to Wallis in making this find public at all! Of course, I have written it all out fully in my daily re­port, which I shall mail as usual to­night. But I promised you that, in re­turn for your kindness and hospitality, I would be frank with you; that we should, in a way, work together. So, once more let me warn you how terribly important it is that not a word of this shall get out.”

  He dove into an inside pocket, and threw upon the table top something that glittered dully in the faint light that crept in through the shuttered windows. Annie touched it gingerly, picked it up and held it to the light. It was a tar­nished string of gold beads.

  “Why, this is very old!” she cried. “See the size of the beads, and how thin they are worn!”

  Teller spoke softly. “It was a string of gold beads, belonging to her grand­mother, that was among the things stolen from Mrs. Bronson, wasn’t it?”

  Weston’s voice was sharp and nerv­ous as he asked: “Where did these come from, Teller? Where did you find them?”

  Teller smiled bleakly. “These beads were concealed very cunningly in the false drawer of an old writing desk in friend Hodge’s house. I took the lib­erty of entering it last night, while he and his wife were asleep. Little habit of mine, you know, to come and go un­announced!”

  Annie gasped. “Why—but—you don’t suspect—”

  Teller raised a deprecating hand. “Let us not deal with suspicions, Mrs. Weston, but with facts. That is where the beads were. In good time, I expect to have them identified and to show why they were hidden in Hodge’s writing desk. Meanwhile, forget that I showed them to you. All I can say now is, the trail grows warmer!”

  CHAPTER V: IN THE CELLAR

  On the morning following, Frank Weston started out on a longer hike than he had as yet undertaken. Ever since Teller had quartered himself at the old Jarvis place, he had been free to wander about and enjoy himself dig­ging clams, or fishing for cunners, swimming
in the bracing Atlantic, or simply taking a brisk walk. Annie no longer felt nervous, if his absences were not prolonged. She felt a little natural apprehension lest he meet up with the desperado in some lonesome spot; but so far he had committed all his outrages in the blackness of night.

  On his tramps, Weston always car­ried his automatic; and when down on the beach, he had practiced with it, shooting at bits of driftwood. Teller also had a gun which he carried loose in the side pocket of his coat. There was no part of the twenty-four hours when Annie was not, as she and Weston both felt, adequately protected.

  On this bright morning, Frank pur­posed to pay a visit to the looted cot­tage. This was several miles down the shore; and owing to the fact that the shore line was not straight, but wound in and out and was broken by many little estuaries, it took him some three hours to arrive.

  There wasn’t much to see; a care­taker had been installed, the place had been cleaned up, and a list of the things stolen proved to be not very serious. Nothing of much value save the radio outfit and some good rugs and pictures had been left in the cottage over the winter. The caretaker welcomed him, the time dragging somewhat in this re­mote place; and he went over the house, but found little to interest him. So, after giving the man a handful of cigars, and thanking him, he started back for home, this time taking to the highway in order to save time and arrive for dinner.

  He had proceeded less than half a mile when a swiftly driven touring car passed him. Directly after, it slowed down, and the man who was not driving turned and waved a hand at him.

  Sheriff Thomas sat in the tonneau; Frank noticed that his face was grim and unshaven. He opened the door, beckoned. “Can I give you a lift? You’re a long way from home!”

  “Took a notion to run down and look over the Barnard cottage,” Weston explained. “I like to get all the exercise I can these fine days.”