The Forgotten Door

by Alexander Key

  “Thomas,” Mary began worriedly, “do you think it likely that Anderson Bush could find out the truth about — about this wild boy thing?”

  “He certainly could! He’s no fool. I’ve never talked to him before, but I know his reputation. He’s a born ferret and a stickler for the law — that’s why he’d sure give us trouble. Bush doesn’t like kids, and he never makes any exceptions. He sure had me going with those questions. If only he doesn’t get too curious about Jon and start asking more …”

  “There’s really no reason for him to,” Mary said. “It shouldn’t be hard to find out who broke into the Holliday place.”

  “Oh, he’ll find out — but that’s not what worries me. It’s pretty obvious who did it. Only, he doesn’t know certain people like we do — he hasn’t been here long enough. It’ll take time to narrow things down and find out who’s lying. And they’ll lie. Oh, confound that fool Gilby for bringing up that tale.”

  “But he had to, Thomas. After all, when there’s been a robbery …”

  “Oh, I suppose so. Well, the thing’s happened, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Thomas sighed and turned back to the truck. “Let’s get on with our hunting, Jon.”

  He Is Recognized

  THE TRUCK wound down toward the lower valley, and stopped briefly at the spot where Little Jon had crouched in hiding on Saturday.

  “As nearly as I can guess,” Thomas told him, “you must have walked ten or twelve miles through the mountains to come out here. That’s all National Forest. You were heading east most of the time. Which way did you head earlier when you were following the deer to that field of Gilby’s?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We wound around a lot. And we went over one low ridge before we got down into the valley.”

  “H’mm. Have you any idea how long it took you to reach the field?”

  “It’s hard to judge, sir. You see, I hadn’t learned to count the time the way you do. And I felt so bad — it was all I could do to keep up with the doe. It may have been an hour, or even more. How far can you walk in an hour?”

  Thomas chuckled. “In this country there’s no telling. But let’s say you walked a mile and a half, and mostly in an easterly direction. Gilby’s place is in a pocket where the valley curves — and it isn’t the same valley as this one. So what we’ll do is drive past his land, and hike up the mountain to the first cove. If we can’t find a spot you recognize, we’ll come back tomorrow and start in below Gilby’s.”

  The truck moved on, going up and down and winding in many directions. Finally it crossed a bridge and turned into another valley. They drove past a farm, and several summer cottages that faced a noisy creek bordering the road. The next farm was nearly hidden by the dense growth of poplars along the fence.

  “That’s Gilby’s place,” said Thomas, jerking his head as they went by. “Dr. Holliday’s property is about a quarter of a mile farther on. We’ll stop between the two.”

  At the first wide spot in the road, the truck was run as far over to the edge of the creek as possible, and they got out. “There’s no bridge near,” Thomas told him. “We’ll have to wade.”

  “I’ll jump,” said Little Jon, and without thinking he made his feet light and cleared the stream in a bound. Turning, he saw the expression on Thomas Bean’s face. After Thomas had splashed awkwardly over, Little Jon said apologetically, “I — I forgot. You’re afraid someone might see me do that.”

  “I’d hate for Anderson Bush to catch you at it.”

  Thomas stamped water from his boots, and squinted at the forested slopes rising on three sides of them. “By the roads, we’re nearly fifteen miles from home. Bet you can’t tell me in what direction home is — and no fair peeking in my head for the answer!”

  “I already know the answer,” Little Jon told him, pointing instantly to the south. “It’s a short distance over the ridge yonder. You see, I’ve been watching the way the roads and the valleys curve.”

  “I’ll be jiggered! There’s not a man in a hundred would guess that, unless he’d been raised around here. It’s only two miles through a gap back of the Holliday place — if you know the trail.”

  “Oh!”

  Thomas Bean frowned at him. “What’s worrying you, Jon?”

  “I was wondering why Mr. Macklin’s boys would steal — and why Mr. Macklin would let them.”

  “Great guns, how’d you ever get such an idea?”

  “Well, you’ve been thinking they did, and Mr. Macklin knows they did, because yesterday when he stopped at the shop he was thinking about it.” Little Jon paused, and looked up earnestly. “Please, Mr. Bean, you mustn’t believe that I’m always looking into other people’s heads. It isn’t —” He groped for a word. “It isn’t polite, or even right. The only reason I’ve been doing it is so I could learn. I had to do it. And sometimes you have thoughts that are so strong they— they seem to jump out at me. It goes with the way you feel. It was that way with Mr. Macklin. Yesterday he was thinking about his boys carrying things over the gap, from a house on this side. It didn’t mean anything to me then, but now I understand why the thought was so strong.”

  “Good grief!” Thomas muttered, staring at him. He began snapping his fingers. “What a thing to know — and we can’t say a word about it.”

  He gave a worried shake of his head, and adjusted the knapsack over his shoulder. “Let’s forget about the Macklins, and see if we can find that spot we’re after. It’s getting more important all the time.” He thrust through a tangle of laurels, and began limping up a narrow ravine that opened through the trees.

  Little Jon followed him easily. He could have climbed twice as fast, had Thomas been able to manage it. It was too bad, he thought, that people here couldn’t make their feet light and save themselves so much trouble in getting around. It was such a simple thing. A way of thinking. But it was like so many other things that should be simple — like agreeing on something that was right, instead of trying to make it right some other way. That was why Thomas Bean limped. It had happened in a place called Korea, Brooks had said. Many men had died in Korea — and still no one agreed.

  They topped the first ridge, and Thomas Bean stopped to rest. “See anything around here that looks familiar to you?”

  “I don’t believe I came this way,” he said, studying the shadowed cove below them. “If I’d felt better Saturday, I’m sure I could have remembered everything exactly. But my head hurt, and I was so confused …”

  “Don’t apologize. This isn’t going to be easy. I’ve known people to be lost for days in these mountains — and all the time they were within a half hour of a road. Let’s start working east.”

  They followed the cove, crossed another ridge, and tramped for a winding mile or more through dense forest. By noon Little Jon had seen nothing he recognized. Finally they sat down on a mossy outcropping of rock, and Thomas opened his knapsack. Little Jon had finished a sandwich and an apple when he suddenly whispered, “The doe — she’s near!”

  All morning he had known that many wild creatures had watched them from a distance, and several times he had seen deer go bounding away. He had not tried to call to them. But aware of a friend, he spoke silently, urging her to come nearer. She refused.

  “What doe?” Thomas whispered. “I don’t see —”

  “She’s way up yonder to the right — the one I followed Saturday. She knows me, but she won’t come out. She’s afraid of you. Mr. Pitts shot at her and hurt her — it wasn’t a bad hurt because I spoiled his aim — but it makes her very afraid.”

  Thomas growled under his breath, “Had an idea something like that happened. I’d like to wring Gilby’s neck.”

  “I couldn’t tell you at the time — I didn’t know the words. Anyway, we’re getting close, Mr. Bean. The doe proves it.”

  “But I don’t see how. These deer range for miles over the mountains.”

  “Yes, but she has a fawn that can’t travel far, and she’s still on the trail she u
sed Saturday, only higher up. There are some — some vines she eats when she can’t get anything else.”

  “Wild honeysuckle. Do you know the direction of Gilby’s land from here?”

  “Of course. It’s straight over yonder.” Little Jon pointed. “But we’ll have to go way around, then curve to the left.”

  “Let’s get going! I don’t know how you keep these directions straight, but with a head like yours, I suppose …”

  They found the doe’s trail easily, and now Little Jon led the way. For Thomas Bean the next half hour was difficult. Many times Little Jon had to help him over tumbled faces of rock, slippery with green moss and running water. When they reached better ground, Thomas glanced back and grumbled, “I’m a fair mountain man in spite of my foot — but when we head for home it won’t be that way.”

  “We won’t have to, sir. The road’s much closer from here. We just turn left — north. Oh — I know this place! Yonder’s where I first saw the doe.”

  He darted ahead, suddenly excited, then stopped to look slowly about him, searching.

  “Was it here?” asked Thomas, limping over to him.

  “It must be. It’s where — no, there was a spring. I drank from it. After that I crawled …”

  “There are springs all around here. You say you crawled — from where?”

  “It was from a sort of dark place.”

  “You mean a cave?”

  “It must have been. I hadn’t realized till now — but there’s no cave here.”

  “Let’s try higher up,” said Thomas, starting upward through a tangle of rhododendrons. “There seems to be a ledge …”

  There was a ledge. And there was a break in the strata, marking what seemed to be a shallow cave behind the tangle. Near the mouth of it water trickled into a small pool.

  “This is the place!” Little Jon cried. “I drank from the spring — see the marks of my hands? I woke up in there, where it’s flat.”

  They crawled inside. Thomas Bean took a flashlight from his knapsack and sent the beam slowly about. The cave was much larger than it had appeared from the entrance.

  “There’s been a fall of rock in here recently, Jon. Funny-looking stuff. Looks igneous — but only on one side.”

  “Igneous?”

  “Volcanic. But no volcano ever melted this.” He chipped experimentally with his hammer. “It’s what we call metamorphic granite — old, old rock that’s changing. And something has seared one side of it, a long time ago. I’ll be jiggered!”

  Thomas went farther back and straightened up. “This place is like the inside of a bottle. We’ve certainly found something — but don’t ask me what. Think, Jon! Think about that door idea! Could this be part of it?”

  “I — I don’t know, sir. This place, it makes me feel sort of — tingly all over, as if something … but I can’t remember.”

  He was aware of Thomas Bean’s rising excitement as he chipped off flakes of fallen rock and examined them. Finally Thomas thrust the pieces into his knapsack, and turned the light on his pocket watch. It was later than either of them had realized.

  “Pshaw!” Thomas growled. “Hate to leave — but it’ll be nearly dark when we get back, and there are things to do. We’ll return first thing in the morning.”

  They left reluctantly, their thoughts leaping as they talked of their discovery. As the shadows deepened in the forest, they fell silent and began to hurry. Little Jon led the way, following the doe’s trail to the valley. At the fence he turned, skirting Gilby Pitts’s land, and went through the woods to the creek.

  He crossed the creek as before, though not until he had made sure that no one was around to see him.

  The truck was several hundred yards around the bend ahead. They were in sight of it when Little Jon heard a car approaching. It was almost inaudible above the clatter of the creek, yet his sharp ears recognized the sound.

  He clutched Thomas Bean’s arm in sudden uneasiness. “Mr. Bush is coming,” he said. “I — I ought to hide.”

  “There’s no reason to. He’s already met you. What makes you afraid?”

  “I don’t know. Something …”

  There was no place to hide here. The creek fell away on their left, and on their right the rocky slope rose sharply. And suddenly the car with the star on the side was swinging around a curve.

  It slowed as it came near them, and stopped. Gilby Pitts was sitting in the front with Anderson Bush.

  “Howdy, Tom,” said Gilby, his eyes sliding interestedly over Little Jon. “Heard you had a visitor. This him?”

  “Yes. We’ve been doing a bit of rock-hunting together. How are matters up at Holliday’s?”

  “Been tryin’ to make a list of what’s been took. Some pretty valuable things. The Doctor’s pet target rifle — he paid over three hundred dollars for it. Then there’s some expensive fishin’ rods …” Gilby Pitts rubbed his chin over his high shoulder and leaned out of the car window, squinting downward. “Them boots …”

  All at once Gilby was out of the car and stooping swiftly. Little Jon knew what was coming even before Gilby’s clutching hand gave his trouser leg a jerk to expose the top of the boot. And he was aware of Thomas Bean’s desperate thought, If you’ll just keep quiet, Jon, and not say a word, I’ll handle this.

  Thomas said, “What’s come over you, Gilby?”

  “Them’s the boots I seen at your house Saturday night,” Gilby Pitts said accusingly.

  Thomas laughed. “What of it?”

  “This kid was there all the time I was there! You never told me …”

  “That we had a visitor? Why should I? Jon had had a hard day traveling, and we’d put him to bed. What’s got into you, Gilby?”

  “Them boots,” snapped Gilby. “Ever since I seen ’em there I been wonderin’ where I seen ’em before. It’s come to me. That wild boy was wearin’ ’em!”

  Thomas laughed again, but Gilby said hoarsely, “You been hiding ’im! You cut his hair an’ changed his clothes, but you ain’t changed his face. I’d know that peaky face anywhere! This here’s the ornery little varmint that done the breakin’ in and stealin’!”

  “Gilby,” Thomas said quietly, but with an inner fury that only Little Jon was aware of. “Take your hands off Jon — and stop accusing him before I lose my temper.”

  “Hold it!” ordered Anderson Bush, who had already stepped from the car and was standing, frowning, behind Gilby. “Mr. Pitts,” he said in his grating voice, “are you absolutely sure this is the same boy you saw the other day?”

  “I got eyes!” snapped Gilby. “I’d know ’im anywhere!”

  “You would be willing to swear to it?”

  “On the Bible!” Gilby said emphatically.

  “That’s all I need to know.” Anderson Bush looked hard at Little Jon, and his eyes narrowed as he turned to Thomas. “Mr. Bean, I’m afraid you haven’t been honest with me. You said this boy had never been in the mountains before, and that he arrived at your place Saturday night.”

  “So I did.”

  “Why is it he was seen over here Saturday morning?”

  “Pshaw!” said Thomas. “This thing’s getting ridiculous. Who knows what Gilby really saw over here?”

  “I know what I saw!” Gilby Pitts cried. “An’—I know them boots!”

  “You see, Mr. Bean?” the deputy went on, his eyebrows raised. “I’m sure Mr. Pitts is a reliable witness. Those are very unusual boots the boy is wearing — and the boy himself is, well, different-looking. I’m sure I’d never forget either the boots or the boy, if I’d seen them before.”

  “Look here,” said Thomas, his voice tighter, “this whole thing started because of a robbery that Jon couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with. Are you accusing him of being a thief?”

  “Mr. Bean,” replied Anderson Bush, with a sort of deadly patience, “I’m only an investigating officer looking for facts. I’ve run into some very peculiar facts that need an explanation. We’re due for another talk
, Mr. Bean, so I think you’d better go home and wait for me. I’ll be right over as soon as I drop off Mr. Pitts.”

  He Is Accused

  IT WAS NEARLY DARK when they reached the house. Little Jon glimpsed Brooks and Sally running from the barn to meet them, and he could hear Rascal whining impatiently in the enclosure, eager to see him and yet reproachful at being left alone all day. He wished suddenly that he had managed to take Rascal with them. The big dog would have loved it. Maybe, tomorrow …

  “Remember,” Thomas was saying, as he set the brakes and turned off the motor, “if Bush insists on asking you questions, let me think the answers before you tell him anything. He can’t make us answer— only a court can do that. But I don’t want him dragging us into court.”

  “Hi, Dad!” Brooks called. “School’s out today! Yow-ee!”

  “Mommy said you’d gone rock-hunting,” Sally said eagerly, running ahead of Brooks. “Did you find any pretty stones?”

  “A few. Where’s your mother?”

  “Here, Thomas,” said Mary Bean, appearing from around the side of the house. “What kept you so late?”

  “Trouble,” Thomas said hastily. “We ran into Gilby and that deputy on the way back, and Gilby recognized Jon. Bush is on his way over to ask more questions. Keep Sally and Brooks in the kitchen. Jon, you might stay out of sight in the living room — but close enough to hear. I’ll talk to Bush on the porch. Hurry — here he comes.”

  It was a warm evening, and the windows had been opened. Little Jon, huddled in a chair in the darkened room, heard the deputy’s feet on the porch, and Thomas Bean’s polite voice offering him a seat.

  “Would you care for some coffee, sir?” Thomas asked. “I think Mrs. Bean has a fresh pot ready.”

  “No thanks,” came the deputy’s grating reply. “I just want to talk to that boy. Will you get him out here, please?”

  “I don’t see any real reason to, Mr. Bush. I’ll answer your questions.”

  “Mr. Bean, by your own admission, you didn’t see that boy until Saturday evening. How can you tell me what the boy was doing the rest of the day?”