Mystery of the Sassafras Chair

by Alexander Key

  The man paused near the bridge, took something from his pocket, and held it to his mouth. Timor had never seen anyone use a turkey call before, but now he recognized the sound when it came. The man was signaling.

  What was keeping Nathaniel? From here it was five miles to the Forks; surely it wouldn’t take more than a half hour to drive there, hide the chair in the shop, and come back.

  Timor glanced worriedly in the direction of the bridge. He could not see it from where he lay, but he could make out the stranger’s head and shoulders near a tree, and he glimpsed another man approaching through the shrubbery. The newcomer’s face was hidden, but in his mind he could see the match thrust between the thin lips, and almost feel the impact of the pale eyes in the flat expressionless face.

  The two men stood together only a moment, then quietly separated, one vanishing upstream into the alders, the other fading into the growth below the parking area.

  Timor felt like a small mouse in a trap. He realized his trick of wading hadn’t worked. They knew he was on this side of the creek. If he remained where he was, it would be only a matter of minutes before they found him.

  Trembling, he tried to slide backward, deeper into the shadow of the protective shrubbery that arched over his head. The too-large jacket was an encumbrance. Weighed down by the can in one pocket and the flashlight in the other, it caught on the twigs around him and refused to budge without causing a disturbance. He tried to slide out of it, but froze as he saw movement a few yards away.

  The movement stopped, and through the screen of leaves he made out the shape of a man crouching, watching the alder tangle stretching upstream. The man was gripping something in his right hand. Was it a short piece of iron pipe?

  It was.

  Timor chilled. Even without the weapon, the stealth and the deadly intentness of the watching man were enough to tell him of his danger. These two hunting him were not like the Grossers.

  The Grossers had wanted only to destroy the chair, but the Gatlins seemed determined to destroy the chair’s owner.

  Why? Was it because they thought he knew who had taken the box? Rance Gatlin had taken it—there was no doubt of that now. But would they want to kill him merely because he knew? That wasn’t enough. Was it something about the box? That had to be it. The box—the peti blik, as he always thought of it—was lost. The Gatlins hadn’t bothered to look for it. Were they afraid the chair’s owner might find it?

  The afternoon had turned warm, but Timor did not notice it. The can of food in his pocket was forgotten with his hunger and his aches. He fought rising panic and clung to the ground, knowing his only chance was to play rabbit and remain absolutely motionless.

  The seconds dragged. Why didn’t Nathaniel come?

  From somewhere upstream, faintly, he heard the sudden tauk, tauk, tauk of the turkey call. Was the fox announcing that the rabbit’s trail had been located? The crouching man rose, took a long, slow look about him, and began moving soundlessly into the brush.

  With his heart pounding, Timor crawled from his shelter, sped on tiptoe around the back of the blue car, and raced up the path to the road. At this moment he would have welcomed the sight of anyone on the road, even his uncle or the Grossers. The mountains were filled with men hunting him—but the road here was empty.

  He looked quickly backward and found that the blue car was now hidden by the trees. That meant no one could see him, though the fact gave him no comfort. If the fox with the match had so easily discovered that the rabbit had crossed the creek, it wouldn’t be long before it was known that the fleeing rabbit had taken to the road.

  Timor raced down the rutted gravel, praying that someone, anyone, would come driving by and give him a ride. If he could stay on the road long enough he would surely meet Nathaniel. But how long dare he stay? Despairingly he realized that every passing second added to his danger. He should be seeking cover now.

  Suddenly he heard a car approaching ahead. It must be Nathaniel.

  He went stumbling on to meet it, gasping for breath.

  It was not a jeep that swung around the bend, but a battered vehicle he had never seen before. Timor waved both hands at it and the car braked to a stop beside him. Joey Jackson was driving.

  Joey gawked at him as he scrambled into the back and crouched down behind the driver’s seat. “Turn around!” he urged Joey. “Hurry—they’ll be coming after me in a minute!”

  “Can’t turn here,” Joey said uncertainly. “Road’s too narrow. I gotta keep goin’. W-who’s after you?”

  “Some men in a blue car—they’re at Wiley’s place. They—they’re trying to kill me, Joey. Maybe we can get past before they come out, but you’ve got to hurry!”

  “I’ll try!” Joey sent the old machine forward with a grinding of gears.

  Timor remained hidden until they were well past the danger area, then asked, “Did you notice anyone when we went by?”

  “Yeah. That Gatlin feller. He was standin’ by the road—seemed like he was lookin’ for your footprints. He must figger you know all about him if he aims to kill you.”

  Timor swallowed. “Yes. Joey, where are you going now?”

  “Back over the Gap. I come down to learn if you’d been found—stopped at Wiley’s place first, but didn’t see nobody so I went on to your uncle’s. Tim, you’re plum’ crazy to be hidin’ like this when everybody in the world …”

  “I—I had to hide—and I’ve got to stay hidden until I’ve found Mr. Battle. He was supposed to meet me, but I’m afraid something’s happened. Was he at my uncle’s place?”

  “Didn’t notice ’im there.”

  “Then he must be at his shop. Joey, I’ve got to go there. Can you turn around somewhere and take me to the Forks?”

  Joey’s face tightened. “I—I don’t think we’d better. Not just yet. That Gatlin feller, he seen me go by. He might get ideas if I was to come back too soon. An’ that ain’t all.” Joey’s hands clenched the wheel so hard his knuckles whitened.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your tracks. If I’d picked you up down by your uncle’s bridge where the new gravel starts, your tracks wouldn’t show. But up here the clay’s come through with the rain. Look at your shoes an’ see if they ain’t got clay on ’em.”

  Timor peered at his sneakers. “You’re right.”

  Joey sent the old car forward as fast as it would go. “He was lookin’ for your tracks, an’ he’ll foller ’em sure an’ see where you got in the car. Anybody could figger that out.”

  Timor felt numb. “Joey, stop and let me go. If he finds me with you, he’ll …”

  “Nothin’ doin’! I ain’t desertin’ you now. If I can get us over the Gap, there’ll be folks around an’ he won’t bother us. Pull up that rear seat an’ crawl back in the trunk. Heap of stuff in there, but anybody small as you oughta be able to squeeze in.”

  The lining behind the seat, Timor soon discovered, had long ago vanished and he had little trouble crawling through after he had pulled off his jacket and thrust it in ahead of him. He tugged the seat back in place and managed to wedge himself between it and a musty roll of canvas that seemed to be a tent.

  The car was climbing now, for the motor was laboring. Presently he heard Joey shift gears and he could feel the car lurching as it swung about the hairpin turns near the Gap. Timor tried not to think of the way the mountain fell sharply away at the road’s edge, with a drop of hundreds of feet to the valley below.

  Suddenly there was the sound of another car behind them, then a shout, an abrupt jolt, and the rasp of tires fighting loose gravel. The wild motion stopped and he heard Joey cry out in fright, “What are you tryin’ to do—run me off the road?”

  A car door slammed, footsteps crunched beside them, and the rear door of Joey’s car was jerked open. Timor held his breath, trembling. He could feel the pale unseen eyes of the fox probing about, searching for a sign of the rabbit, wondering …

  The fox’s curiously soft voice demanded, �
��Just where do you think you’re going?”

  “C-casey’s Cabins,” Joey stammered. “I—I work there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “J-joey Jackson.”

  “So. You’re the one who was hauling gravel with Shorty last month.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you stop down the road a while ago?”

  “Sure, I stopped. W-what’s this all about?”

  “Why did you stop?”

  “I—I thought I seen somethin’ jump into the bushes.”

  “Something—or somebody?”

  “I—I dunno. I’d just been to the Hamilton place to see if they’d found that lost boy everybody’s talkin’ about. Reckon I had him on my mind.”

  “Let’s have the keys to your trunk.”

  “L-look, mister,” Joey protested. “I ain’t broke no law or nothin’. How come—”

  There was the sound of another motor in the rear, and a squeal of brakes. A high-pitched woman’s voice called out, “What’s going on here, Joey?”

  “I—I dunno, Mrs. Casey. Ask these fellers what they want. They won’t tell me.”

  The soft voice purred, “Thought he might have liquor in the car, Mrs. Casey. Someone’s been—”

  “Liquor!” the woman shrilled. “And you’re picking on Joey? For Pete’s sake, Rance Gatlin, what’s got into you? I thought you were supposed to be out hunting that lost Hamilton boy! Stop holding up traffic and let Joey and me go home. I’ve got nine guests coming for dinner tonight and there’s no end of work to do. Get going, Joey!”

  Timor went limp. Then, as the old car moved on over the Gap, his fear returned. The fox hadn’t seen the inside of the trunk, but he must have guessed the rabbit was hidden in it …

  The car stopped presently, and he heard Joey get out. The other car stopped close by, and now Mrs. Casey’s voice snapped, “Joey Jackson Pendergrass, I don’t know what was going on back there, but you’ll keep no secrets from me. When I gave you a job, you promised on your honor you’d never fool around with liquor again. Have you broken your word?”

  “N-no, ma’am! Honest, I …”

  “Joey, I’d trust you a mile farther than I would that pussy-footing Gatlin, but you’re up to something. What is it?”

  “Mrs. Casey, honest …”

  “Don’t lie to me. Your cousin Wiley couldn’t do it. He was more saint than rascal, if people only knew it—but I’m not so sure of you. You’re up to something, Joey, and you’re scared. Why?”

  “Mrs. Casey, I got a right to be scared. Them fellers, they tried to run me off the road. They’re out to kill us. They …”

  “Us?” Mrs. Casey repeated sharply.

  Timor had heard enough. He thrust the seat out of the way and crawled from his cramped hiding place, then stood clutching his jacket, blinking with some astonishment at the woman in blue jeans standing in front of a new truck beside Joey. From her voice, which triumphed over all opposing sound, he had expected to see a huge woman; but Mrs. Casey was small, thin and red-headed, with a no-nonsense face that was completely covered with freckles.

  “Mrs. Casey,” Timor began, with an uneasy glance around at the encircling evergreens, the row of cabins, and the large building beside them, “Joey’s telling the truth. I—I’d probably be dead now if he hadn’t helped. But I don’t think I’d better stand here—if Mr. Gatlin comes … and he will—he must have guessed by now where I was.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Tim Hamilton.”

  Mrs. Casey blinked. “Great skies above,” she whispered. Suddenly she tugged at his arm. “Quick, into the office here.”

  She threw open the side door of the building next to them, and thrust him in ahead of her. She kicked the door closed and darted behind the counter that cut the small room in half, reached under it, and thumped something on the blotter in front of her. It was a pistol.

  “Let him come,” she snapped. “He’ll find out who can shoot straight. I always told Maggie McBane that Rance was a weasel, but she wouldn’t believe me.”

  She stared hard at him, frowning. “Son, you look beat. Have you eaten today?”

  He shook his head. “There isn’t time to eat,” he told her urgently. “I—I’ve got to find out what happened to Mr. Battle. It—it’s terribly important. Have you a telephone?”

  “I have, but I’ll do the calling while you eat. Joey, bring those sandwiches from the ice box and put coffee on. Now, before I call Nathaniel, let’s have the truth about your talking chair.” She paused, and added quietly, “Is—is Wiley really helping you to find out what happened at the Forks?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She closed her eyes a moment. “Bless the old rascal!” she said fervently. “I was telling May Connor this morning he’d give up his glory crown to come back and help his friends.”

  With a watchful glance out of the window, she picked up the telephone behind her, searched for a number on a card pinned to the wall, and began dialing.

  12

  Dowser

  JOEY brought in a platter of sandwiches and went back to tend the coffee. Mrs. Casey, with one eye ever on the window, fretted with the telephone; finally she slammed down the receiver. “Always the busy signal,” she bit out. “That’s the trouble with party lines. Nathaniel’s on one, I’m on another. We’ll just have to wait. I’ll keep trying, Tim, but you sit down and eat and tell me what happened.”

  Between bites of thick beef sandwiches he told it briefly from the beginning. She interrupted him with hurried questions until she had the story straight. Her eyes were blazing when he finished. She started to say something, then her face suddenly hardened as her glance went again to the office window.

  “Here he comes!” she whispered. “Sneaking up from the road to look at Joey’s car. Keep out of sight, Tim. I’ll handle the weasel.”

  She slipped the pistol into her pocket and stepped boldly outside. “If you’re still trying to pick on Joey,” she shrilled, “I’ll have your scalp and your hide to go with it! He told me how you tried to run him off the mountain a while ago. Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Timor could not hear the reply, but presently Mrs. Casey returned. “I think I have them buffaloed for the moment,” she said grimly. “The way I see it, they’re not sure now whether Joey brought you here or let you out somewhere on the road before he was stopped. Anyway, they’ve gone back down the valley. Whatever we do, we’ll have to work fast.”

  She snatched up the telephone and dialed again. At last she put it down slowly and ran her hand through her mass of red hair. Suddenly she called, “Joey, come here.”

  Joey came running. “Forget the coffee,” she told him. “I’m taking Tim down to the Forks to find Nathaniel. If that devil comes back, tell him if he hasn’t a search warrant he can get out—but keep the shotgun handy.”

  “M-mrs. Casey,” Joey stammered, “hadn’t you better stay here with Tim an’ let me hunt Mr. Battle?”

  “No, you’ve done your turn. Anyhow, it would take too long, and they may catch you and get rough. I may be a widow, but they won’t meddle with me. I’ve a brother who’s a lawyer and another who’s a judge.”

  “What about them folks you got comin’ for supper?”

  “You and the cook will just have to handle them. Let’s go, Tim.”

  They ran out to her truck. Inside, she placed the pistol on the seat between them and said, “Watch the road both ways, and duck down on the floor if you see anyone.”

  She sent the new truck roaring out of the driveway into the road. In a few minutes they had climbed to the Gap and were twisting down into the long blue valley on the other side. Timor rolled up the sleeves of Wiley’s too-long shirt and sat clutching the jacket, thinking of something Joey had told him. The gravel was the answer. The new gravel. Why hadn’t he realized it earlier?

  “I think I see them,” Mrs. Casey said abruptly. “There’s a car waiting at the edge of the road way down by the next turn. Better
duck.”

  He slid to the floor and pulled the jacket over his head. Mrs. Casey sped down the long grade, leaned on the horn, and braked only slightly as they made the turn.

  “Those were our boys,” she muttered. “They started to block the road, but I wasn’t giving an inch. Now the question is whether they’ll go back to worry Joey, or follow us.”

  Presently she said, “They’ve decided to follow. They’re only guessing, of course. They’re too smart to try anything; they’ll just tag along and keep us in sight.” She gave a harsh little laugh. “This is as bad as an old-time movie, but the awful part of it is that we can’t prove anything against them. Not one single thing! If I told Maggie McBane they tried to kill you and run Joey off the road, she’d get on her high horse and say I was imagining it. She’s as hardheaded as that uncle of yours. Oh, I’d like to give him a piece of my mind!”

  Timor thrust the jacket aside, but remained on the floor. “If I could find that lost box, it would be proof enough, wouldn’t it?”

  “It certainly ought to—if it had fingerprints on it.”

  “Would being buried in the ground ruin the prints?”

  “Not too much, I understand. All they need is one little print. Have you any idea at all where the box is?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have to talk it over with Nathaniel.”

  “Well, we’re almost at Wiley’s road. Nathaniel may be there waiting.”

  She slowed almost to a stop, and leaned over Timor for a quick look down at Wiley’s parking space. Then her foot stabbed the gas pedal. “His jeep’s not there. Better cover up again—we’ll be passing your uncle’s place in a minute. It’s swarming.”

  The truck rushed on. “If only Nathaniel had thought to bring the chair to me!” she wailed. “Tim, if he wrote that message to you at noon, it was hours ago. I can’t help feeling …”

  She slowed once more as they neared his uncle’s road, creeping along until she had studied the cars parked along the road’s shoulder and beyond the bridge. “No sign of him,” she announced. “Pray he’s at the shop.”