Mystery of the Sassafras Chair

by Alexander Key

  Presently Odessa, glancing at him, asked, “What’s worrying you now, Timmy?”

  “I don’t know. I—I keep thinking about the chair.”

  An invisible string was suddenly tugging at him again. He got up and hurried back to the cabin, and ran to his room.

  The sun was on the other side of the cabin, leaving his room in shadow. Even so, the sassafras chair seemed to glow faintly in its corner as if it had a life of its own. Timor stared at it, then whispered hopefully, “Mr. Pendergrass? Are you there?”

  There was no reply, though the chair did seem to glow a bit brighter.

  “Mr. Pendergrass?” he called. Then, louder, “Mr. Pendergrass! Can you hear me?”

  Very faintly now, so faintly that he could barely make it out, he became aware of the familiar voice.

  “Sure I hear you, Timmy! Ding blatt it, I followed you here! Can’t you see me?”

  “I—I can’t see you at all, sir, and it’s hard to hear you. But the chair’s glowing.”

  “It’s the best I can do in daylight. I’m plum’ wore out from runnin’ around, an’ my juice is low. Timmy, listen to me: I’m afraid I done made a mistake.”

  “W-what’s wrong, Mr. Pendergrass?”

  “Everything. When I asked you to help, I didn’t aim to git you in no trouble. But it seems like I can’t do nothin’ right. Timmy, I was waitin’ there at Nathaniel’s place when you come in, an’ I been hitchin’ rides with people ever since. I just now made it back from town.”

  Surprised, Timor exclaimed, “You—you have to hitch rides to get around?”

  “’Course I do! I sure ain’t growed no wings yet; it hampers a feller something terrible. Timmy, you’ve seen Nathaniel an’ got things stirred up. Now I think you’d better lay low.”

  “But why? Did you find out who has the tin box?”

  “Timmy, ain’t nobody got that box. I’d ’a’ told you that last night if I hadn’t run out o’ juice. I been follerin’ people around for days, lookin’ everywhere. Sammy ain’t got that box, an’ Rance Gatlin ain’t got it. An’ nobody else has got it. It’s mighty queer. But after hearing Nathaniel tell his side of it, I’m gettin’ some ideas. Only thing is, I need a heap more information.”

  “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “Timmy, go see Nathaniel, an’ let him do the gettin’. Understand? From now on you gotta keep out of it ’cept for passin’ the word between us. There’s more danger in this than I figgered an’ you done asked too many questions already.”

  Old Wiley’s voice was becoming fainter. Timor said, “Can you talk a little louder, sir?”

  “Ding blatt it, I’m shoutin’ my head off now! Timmy, ask Nathaniel to find out where Brad James an’ Rance Gatlin went after my accident that night, an’ how long they was away. An’ the same for Sammy Grosser. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “An’ have him find out what time Shorty Malone an’ his pardner came to work the next mornin’.”

  “Who is Shorty Malone?”

  “Nathaniel knows him. Get back to his shop right away … got a couple errands myself … dunno if I can get back … Timmy … gotta warn you …”

  Old Wiley’s voice was fading. “What did you say, sir? Warn me about what?”

  “Tomorrow … paper …”

  “W-what paper do you mean? I can’t hear you! Mr. Pendergrass! …”

  It was no use. Old Wiley had faded out completely.

  Timor looked despairingly at the chair. It still seemed to glow a little, though maybe that was the nature of it. What had Wiley tried to tell him? Something about paper …

  He stood frowning a moment, then turned and hurried from the cabin and began running toward the bridge. Maybe Odessa would take him back to the Forks.

  The clatter of the creek drowned the sound of voices, and he did not know Odessa was no longer alone until he crawled down over the boulders and saw his uncle standing beside her. The colonel, still in fishing boots, was scowling at a broken rod tip.

  Odessa looked upset. “Timmy,” she said quickly, “I—I’ve been telling Daddy about our trip to the Forks this morning. I’m afraid he doesn’t quite agree—”

  “I most certainly do not,” the colonel snapped irritably. “You’re both getting yourselves worked up over nothing.”

  Timor swallowed. “But Mr. Battle thinks—”

  “I don’t care what he thinks! The fellow has my sympathy, of course, but he isn’t facing facts any more than you are. Tim, I cautioned you yesterday about making a fool of yourself.” The colonel paused, and his face hardened. “Now I order you to drop the whole thing and forget about Wiley. Is that clear?”

  “But—but, Uncle Ira, you don’t understand—”

  “I understand well enough. The matter is closed, and confound it, I don’t want to hear any more about it!”

  Timor’s chin trembled. He fought back tears that had not come since his first terrible wave of homesickness when he and Odessa had arrived in America to live with the colonel. He had always been at odds with his uncle; this seemed the breaking point.

  Suddenly he burst out rebelliously, “I won’t drop it! Wiley was my friend! He—he was the only friend I had in this country and I’m not going to turn against him!”

  Before the astonished colonel could reply, Timor whirled away and went scrambling over the rocks, then ran for the bridge.

  It was not until he was across the bridge and well down the valley road that he began to calm a little. He stopped, out of breath, and stood leaning against a tree while he tried unhappily to decide what to do next.

  He couldn’t go back and ask Odessa to take him to the Forks. It would only cause more trouble and make things difficult for her. As for his uncle.… The colonel was his guardian and he was supposed to obey him. But how could he with things as they were?

  Timor glanced down the shadowy road. It was nearly four miles to the Forks, and already the sun was below the western ridge. Could he make it by dark? He doubted it, and he had no desire to be caught out in the blackness of a mountain night without a flashlight. But he must see Nathaniel.

  Resolutely he began to walk.

  6

  Searcher

  THE VALLEY narrowed a few hundred yards downstream, and the road began twisting tortuously through a wild area of national forest. Great trees crowded the slopes, shutting out the paling light from overhead. The plunging creek could be glimpsed only occasionally below the tangles of laurel and rhododendron.

  Timor shivered in the growing chill and wished that he had worn a jacket. He had forgotten how quickly darkness comes in the mountains, and how the temperature can drop. It would be black night long before he reached the Forks.

  Once, at a small sound behind him, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. Two deer, dim in the evening mist, had come down the slope and were crossing the road. They were so close he could have tossed a pebble at them. In the creeping mist they vanished almost as soon as he saw them.

  The sight of the mist brought his first feeling of uneasiness. It was flowing slowly down the valley like a gray tide, obscuring everything it touched. He tried running for a while, hoping to stay ahead of it. The effort was wasted; he was soon forced to stop for breath, and the chill gray tide crept over him.

  Timor trudged on in the deepening grayness. He was trying to estimate how far he had walked when he heard a car approaching. Suddenly fearful that it might be his uncle coming for him, he stepped behind the nearest tree and stood waiting for it to pass.

  It was not a car but a truck, as he soon realized by its rattle and the louder sound of its motor. Probably some farmer from the other side of the Gap. Maybe the driver would give him a ride. He was on the point of leaving his hiding place when the swinging lights, appearing around a bend, glowed through the mist and briefly illuminated the edge of the curving road ahead. Sudden shock went through him.

  He had only a second’s glimpse, but it was enough for hi
m to make out the bulky figure of a man flattening against another tree hardly a dozen feet away.

  The truck swept past. Its lights vanished around the next curve, and soon all sound of it was lost in the distance. Timor stood motionless, listening, not daring to move. In the gloom he could no longer distinguish the hiding figure, nor could he hear any stealthy movement above the rushing of the creek.

  Some returning fisherman? Surely not here, at this hour. And why bother to hide? He had not seen the face clearly, but the figure had seemed vaguely familiar. Those heavy shoulders—did they belong to Brad James? Still, this had seemed to be a much larger man than the deputy.

  Timor had been briefly warmed by his short run, but now he was shaking with cold as the chilling mist bit through his shirt. He couldn’t just stand here.

  Carefully he began edging away from the protective tree, wondering if the man had seen him and could possibly be waiting for him to reappear. It was Timor’s intention to circle cautiously aside before going on, but as he left the tree his eyes caught the vague gleam of a flashlight below the edge of the road on his right. The man had gone down the steep slope that fell away to the creek; now he seemed to be stooped over, playing his light along the rocks as if searching for something.

  Searching for what?

  Suddenly it occurred to Timor that he must be very close to the spot where old Wiley’s truck had crashed. Could the man be looking for the thing Wiley had thrown away?

  Timor moved closer to the road’s edge. As he did so, his foot struck a loose stone, and it slid downward over an area of fresh gravel that had spilled over the slope. Instantly the searcher’s light went out.

  Timor crept stealthily away, then ran, thankful that the wild rushing of the stream masked his footsteps. He did not expect to be followed, nor was he; but the experience had been unnerving. Why would anyone be out looking for something at this time of the evening, and be so strangely secretive about it?

  The gloom had deepened; presently he could not even make out the trees near at hand. He kept to the center of the road now, jogging along to keep warm and judging direction by the feel of the gravel under his feet. A car passed occasionally, heading for the Forks. Each time he hid again, fearful not only of his uncle, but of the unknown searcher who undoubtedly had had some means of transportation placed out of sight in one of the timber trails.

  It was a great relief when he reached the lower valley; here the mist lay above the road, and soon he was able to recognize the vague shape of a farm building close on his left. The Forks lay around the next bend. Presently he saw the dim glow of lights at Grosser’s store.

  A few minutes later, shivering and nearly exhausted, he was huddled by the stove in Nathaniel’s back room, soaking up the warmth of a wood fire and sipping hot coffee from a mug.

  “Have you had anything to eat?” Nathaniel asked.

  Timor shook his head. “I—there wasn’t time.”

  “Eat first, then tell me about it. I know this is pretty important, or you wouldn’t have walked here in the dark, and without a jacket.”

  A steaming plate of hash was set before him. Timor ate it gratefully. Finally he said, “I talked to Wiley again. Then—then I had trouble with my uncle.”

  “What about?”

  Timor told him. “But Wiley wanted me to see you this evening, so I came anyway. He wants you to find out where Brad James and Rance Gatlin went that night after the accident, and how long it took them. Then he wants to know what Sammy Grosser did, and what time Shorty Malone and his partner came to work the next morning.” He looked up curiously. “Who is Shorty Malone?”

  “Oh, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He usually drives a truck when he can get a job.”

  “Could—could he have been driving one of the gravel trucks parked by the diner that night?”

  “Why, it’s possible.” Nathaniel got up, frowning. “That never occurred to me, but then I seldom saw the drivers. They left the trucks here, loaded and ready to roll, and stopped by for them early the next morning. But they did that only for a few days, when they were working up your way.”

  He found a telephone book, searched for a number, and lifted the receiver of the wall phone beside the filing cabinet. “Pray this thing still works. I haven’t paid my last bill …”

  The telephone was working, and presently Nathaniel was engaged in a long and involved conversation, most of which seemed to have nothing to do with the problem at hand. Timor, listening, realized Nathaniel was skillfully angling for information without ever asking a direct question.

  Finally he hung up and looked thoughtfully at Timor. “Shorty is a talker, praise be. He’s given us most of the answers. He and the other driver picked up their trucks here at six that morning.”

  “Isn’t that sort of early?” Timor asked.

  “Not when it gives them a chance to get off early. That’s how they want it.” Nathaniel poured himself a mug of coffee and stood scowling at it. “Seems a lot happened that night that I didn’t hear about, being in the hospital. There was a jailbreak over in Tennessee, and our sheriff and his men had to set up road blocks and check all the cars crossing the mountains. It was a rough night for Rance Gatlin and Brad. Since they were already up on the Gap road because of Wiley, they were ordered to stay there and keep watch till morning. Shorty passed them coming back to the Forks when he took his first load up.”

  Timor puzzled over this. It complicated everything.

  “If your box was thrown into one of the trucks,” he said, “Rance Gatlin didn’t have a chance to get it afterward—if he was the one who put it there. But maybe Sammy got it.”

  “Or one of the drivers—depending on which truck it was thrown in. If it was still in the truck in the morning, anyone would be bound to notice it the moment he opened the door. But somehow I don’t think it was Shorty. He’s about as honest as they come. As for the other man, Jackson …”

  “But—but he hasn’t got it,” Timor said quickly. “Or Sammy, or anyone else. I just remembered. Wiley said he’s been following people around for days, and that no one has the box!”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “I don’t understand, Tim. If the box was tossed into one of the trucks, someone took it out. Even if it fell on the floor instead of the seat, you could hardly miss seeing it.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t hidden in one of the trucks after all.”

  Nathaniel sat down, his brow furrowed. He sipped from his mug, and began tapping his long fingers on the table. “Tim, just exactly what did Wiley tell you about the box?”

  “Well, I asked him if he’d found out who has it, and he said: ‘Timmy, ain’t nobody got that box.’ Then he told me he’d been following everyone around, and looking everywhere, and that it was mighty queer. He was getting some ideas, he said, only he needed more information right away.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “Only—only the questions he wanted you to check for him. There was a lot I wanted to ask him, but his voice faded again.” He paused, and decided not to mention old Wiley’s warning. “Is there any way you can find out what Sammy Grosser did that night?”

  Nathaniel made a wry face. “Sammy will be a problem, but I’ll try. Everybody at Grosser’s has been talking about your chair, so I’ll go over and put in my two cents worth and see what I can dig up. But first I’d better take you home.” He stood up and touched Timor on the shoulder. “I’m sorry about this trouble with your uncle, but it’ll straighten out. Old army men are a little tough at times, but you can usually count on them in a pinch.”

  Timor said nothing. He dreaded going back and facing the colonel, nor had he any illusions about the future. You simply couldn’t explain some matters to him. From now on, things were going to be difficult.

  Swaddled in an old hunting coat, he huddled in Nathaniel’s battered jeep while it crept through the mist. The mist had settled like an impenetrable blanket in the lower valley. But miraculously, as they climbed higher, they broke out of it entirely and
the road became clear ahead. Suddenly Timor remembered what he had seen up here earlier.

  “I forgot to tell you something,” he said quickly. “I don’t know exactly where I was when it happened, but it couldn’t have been very far from the place where Wiley’s truck crashed.”

  Nathaniel slowed, then stopped the jeep while Timor told about the hidden searcher. “I—I couldn’t see his face,” he said. “At first I thought it was Brad James, but he was too big.”

  “Sounds like Sammy Grosser,” Nathaniel commented. “Sammy’s the biggest fellow around here.”

  “But what would Sammy be looking for?”

  “I don’t know, Tim. It doesn’t make sense. Of course, it could have been someone we don’t know about, someone who still thinks my tin box is up here and hasn’t been found. Was the fellow wearing a cap or a hat?”

  “I believe he had on a cap.”

  “Then it must have been Sammy.” Nathaniel shook his head, and drove on slowly. “I don’t understand it and I don’t like it. I’m afraid we’ve overlooked something. Tim, I don’t trust either Sammy or Gatlin, so I want you to be careful. You may not realize it, but most people up in these mountains are rather superstitious, even though they won’t admit it. That includes scoffers like Brad James, and almost certainly the Gatlins.”

  “Not Brad James!”

  “Yes. If he even suspected the truth about your chair, he’d be scared to death of it. So you must understand that the guilty person may possibly begin to believe that you know much more about him than you actually do. And that could be dangerous.”

  “I—I suppose so.”

  At the private road leading to the bridge, Nathaniel said, “Would you like for me to come in and talk to the colonel? Maybe I can ease things a bit.”

  “Maybe you’d better not—he’s probably in a bad mood. Thanks anyway.” Timor got out, then added, “I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again. If there’s any more news, I’ll have Odessa take it to you.”