The Forgotten Door

by Alexander Key

  “I know where he was,” Thomas said. “I know he’s no thief, and I don’t care to have him questioned about a matter that doesn’t concern him.”

  “You told me his parents are dead, Mr. Bean. Are you his legal guardian?”

  “I have charge of him for the time being.”

  “Then I gather you’re not his legal guardian. Will you kindly tell me who is?”

  Thomas stood up, and Little Jon could feel the rising anger in him.

  “Mr. Bush, the only thing that concerns you is to clear up that theft. You’re not going to clear it up by wasting your time here. There are other boys in this area you should be investigating.”

  “Mr. Bean,” said Anderson Bush, in his deadly patient voice, “you’re being very evasive. When people are afraid to answer questions, that means they have something to hide. What are you trying to hide, Mr. Bean?”

  “I’m trying to protect an innocent boy who’s had a very bad experience.”

  Little Jon could almost see Anderson Bush shaking his head. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Bean. I’ve investigated all other possible suspects, and checked them out. This boy — this Jon O’Connor — is the only one left who could have done it. He was seen, under very strange circumstances, near the Holliday place early Saturday. He’s small enough to have squeezed through that window, and there are prints in the dust that could have been made by his boots.”

  The deputy paused, and went on slowly. “I realize how you feel, Mr. Bean. It’s never pleasant to have anyone connected with you accused of a thing like this. But if it’s his first offense, and all the stolen property can be recovered, we don’t have to be too hard on him. If you’ll just call that boy out here and let me talk to him, you’ll save yourself some trouble.”

  “No!” Thomas said firmly. “I’ll not have him questioned! He had nothing to do with this!”

  But Little Jon was already coming through the door. Thomas, he realized, could protect him no longer without making things worse than they were. He thrust his small hands into his pockets to hide their unsteadiness, and shook his head at Thomas Bean’s silent urging to leave. How strange, he thought, looking intently at Anderson Bush, that people here would want to make life such an ugly sort of game. Somewhere, wherever he had come from, there couldn’t be this ugliness, or any of these secret hates and desires that darkened everything …

  “Now, Jon,” Anderson Bush was saying, with a friendliness that Little Jon knew was completely false, “I’m glad you decided to come out and clear this thing up. We don’t like to see young fellows like you being sent to reform school. So, if you’ll tell me where you put those things you took the other day …”

  “Mr. Bush,” he said, “may I ask you a question, please?”

  “You’d better start answering questions instead of asking them,” the deputy said testily.

  “I only wanted to ask you where Mr. Macklin said his boys were Sunday afternoon.”

  “You can’t blame this on the Macklin boys. The whole family was in town all Saturday, at church the next morning, and at Blue Lake with friends all Sunday afternoon. I checked it.”

  Little Jon turned to Thomas. “Mr. Bean, do you remember when Mr. Macklin rode by Monday, looking for his boys? Can you tell Mr. Bush what he said?”

  “Let me think,” said Thomas. “H’mm. He said Tip and Lenny had skipped school and were out hunting that wild boy. Gilby Pitts had told him about it at church. He said —” Suddenly Thomas sat up and snapped his fingers. “I’d entirely forgotten it, but Angus said his boys were away all Sunday afternoon doing the same thing. That means Angus was lying if he said Tip and Lenny were with them at Blue Lake.”

  In the darkness it was hard to see the deputy’s face.

  But his voice was cold as he spoke. “You have a very convenient memory, Mr. Bean. It proves nothing, and it doesn’t explain what this boy — this Jon O’Connor as you call him — was doing when Gilby Pitts caught him Saturday. Just who is this boy, Mr. Bean? You’ve admitted you’re not his guardian. Who brought him here — and why is he staying with you?”

  “Blast your nosiness!” Thomas exploded. “He’s the orphaned son of Captain James O’Connor of the Marines, who was killed in North Africa three months ago. The boy has lost his memory, and he was brought here by regular Marine channels because he needs a quiet place to recuperate. I happen to be O’Connor’s friend, and his former commanding officer. Enough of that. The only thing that concerns you is the robbery. If you don’t believe what I’ve told you about Macklin, you’d better go over there and have it out with him!”

  “We’ll all go over,” Anderson Bush snapped back. “Get in the car, you two.”

  It was less than a half mile up the valley. The deputy drove grimly through the night. Little Jon could feel the coiled danger in him, and he wished Thomas hadn’t lost his temper and told the lie. He loved Thomas for trying to protect him, but the lie was a mistake. There were old hates in Anderson Bush, ugly things of the past that made the man the way he was now. Little Jon wished the thoughts were not there to be seen, but they leaped out as strongly as if the deputy had shouted them aloud. Anderson Bush had been in trouble in the army, and he hated all officers because of it. Later there had been trouble over a son …

  The car stopped with an angry jerk before a weathered farmhouse. Anderson Bush slid out, and they followed him up to the dim porch where a hound backed away, barking.

  The door opened, spilling light upon them, and Angus Macklin stood there blinking. As Angus recognized the deputy, Little Jon was aware of a flicker of uneasiness in him.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Bush!” said Angus, smiling. “Thought you was Gilby at first.”

  “Are you expecting Gilby Pitts?”

  “Yeah. He phoned about that wild boy, said—” Angus stopped, his eyes widening as he saw Little Jon behind Thomas. “Tom, I declare, is that really him?”

  Thomas Bean ignored him. “There’s Gilby coming now,” he growled, as lights swung up the road. “Going to be a nice party!”

  The approaching truck stopped behind the deputy’s car. Gilby and Emma Pitts got out and came up on the porch. Gilby whispered hoarsely, “There’s that boy!” And Emma said, “I want to see ’im — I want to see ’im in the light!”

  They followed Angus into the big ugly living room where a single glaring bulb hung from the ceiling. A pinched woman, with her hands wadded nervously in her apron, stared at them from the back hall. Little Jon guessed she must be Mrs. Macklin. He was wondering about the Macklin boys when Emma Pitts suddenly grabbed his arm and jerked him under the light.

  She was dressed in overalls just as he had seen her in the field that first morning. He forced himself to look steadily into her hard pebble eyes, and was surprised to see the sudden dawn of fear in them.

  All at once she was backing away, exclaiming, “That’s ’im! You cut his hair an’ changed his clothes, Tom Bean, but you ain’t hidin’ what he is! He’s that same wild boy, an’ there’s something mighty queer …”

  “He ain’t natural!” muttered Gilby Pitts.

  “He sure ain’t,” said Angus Macklin, backing away. “I can see it in his face! Anything that runs with wild critters — an’ jumps like ’em …”

  Thomas burst out in angry disgust, “For Pete’s sake, Jon’s not going to bite any of you — but it would serve you right if he did! Mr. Bush, I’ll thank you to settle this business and take us home. We haven’t had our supper yet.”

  “Hold your horses,” Anderson Bush ordered. “Mr. Macklin, where’re Tip and Lenny?”

  “Round the barn somewhere,” Angus replied. “They got chores.”

  Little Jon tugged at Thomas Bean’s sleeve and whispered the thing that Angus was worried about. Thomas straightened. “Angus,” he demanded, “do those chores take your boys as far over as the Johnson place?”

  “How come you say that, Tom?”

  “Because we just came by the Johnson place. It’s not too dark to see a couple b
oys crossing your pasture, if you happen to be watching. Couldn’t make out what they were carrying — but it’s not hard to guess.”

  The smile had frozen on Angus Macklin’s face. “You don’t sound very neighborly, Tom.”

  “I missed too many hams last winter to be in a very neighborly mood,” Thomas snapped back, finally sure of his ground. “You told Bush you’d taken Tip and Lenny to Blue Lake Sunday, but you told me they were out hunting that wild boy.”

  “You heard me wrong! I never said no such —”

  “Pipe down!” Thomas’ voice had a military ring that made Angus flinch. “I’m settling this right now! Your kids ran off Sunday and swiped that stuff from Holliday’s. Lenny went through the window — he’s small enough. They thought they could blame it on that so-called wild boy. But with the law buzzing around all day, you got to worrying about having stolen property on the place. So tonight you sent Tip and Lenny off to hide the things near the Johnsons’.”

  Thomas swung determinedly toward the door. “Come on, Bush. Get your flashlight. We don’t need a search warrant for this. I’ll bet those things are hidden on the edge of Johnsons’ woods. They won’t be hard to find.”

  “You’re taking a lot on yourself,” Anderson Bush said coldly. “You’d better be sure what you’re doing.”

  Emma Pitts cried, “If you find them things in the woods, it’ll be because that wild varmint put ’em there! You’ve got a lot of nerve, Tom Bean, trying to blame it on Angus’ boys!”

  “There’ll be fingerprints,” Thomas reminded her, and limped outside.

  Reluctantly, Anderson Bush got a flashlight from his car and they started across the pasture below the house. A mist was settling down from the ridge, making the night darker than it had been. After a hundred yards the deputy stopped.

  “Mr. Bean,” he grated, “I’ve heard enough lies for one night. It would have been impossible to have seen anyone out here when we drove by. What kind of trick are you trying to pull?”

  Little Jon tugged at Thomas Bean’s sleeve. “Over there,” he said, pointing into the mist.

  The deputy swung his light, and Thomas called, “Tip! Lenny! Come here!”

  Two vague forms materialized in the beam of the light. They started to run, then halted as the deputy shouted. They came over slowly, two slender boys in soiled and patched jeans, with something secretive in their knobby faces that reminded Little Jon of Mrs. Macklin. Suddenly he felt sorry for Mrs. Macklin, and for Tip and Lenny.

  Anderson Bush demanded, “What are you boys doing out here?”

  “We got a right to be here,” Tip, the taller one, said defiantly. “This here’s our land.”

  Thomas said, “You were coming from Johnson’s woods. Take us back the way you came.”

  “What for? We ain’t been over there.”

  “You were seen over there. Get going!”

  “You never seen us!” cried Lenny. “It musta been that wild boy.”

  Tip said, “We was coming back from the barn when we thought we seen something out here. Bet it was that wild boy!”

  “Get going!” Thomas Bean repeated. “Take us where you hid those things.”

  There were loud denials. Tip cried, “How you think we gonna find something in the dark we don’t know nothing about?”

  They were approaching the lower fence. Poplar thickets and brush loomed dimly on the other side. Anderson Bush began moving slowly along the fence, directing his light into the brush. Once Little Jon plucked silently at Thomas Bean’s sleeve and pointed. Thomas nodded, and whispered, “Wait. We don’t want this to look too easy.”

  They reached the corner near the road, and the deputy turned back. Now he crawled through the fence and very carefully began scuffling through the brush as he swung his light about. Thomas and Little Jon followed him, but Tip and Lenny stubbornly refused to leave the pasture.

  The mist settled lower, and presently it became so thick that the power of the light beam was lost after a few yards.

  Anderson Bush said, “It would take a hundred men to find anything out here tonight — if there’s anything to find.”

  “Let me have the light a minute,” said Thomas. “I thought I saw something gleam way over in yonder.”

  Thomas took the light, and guided by tugs of Little Jon’s hand on his sleeve, plunged deeper into the woods.

  Little Jon stopped suddenly before a clump of small cedars growing close to the ground. There was nothing to be seen until he reached in with the toe of his boot and raked out the butt of a fishing rod.

  Thomas whistled softly. “They really had them hidden,” he muttered. “Bush will never believe we didn’t know where they were. Careful — don’t touch anything with your hands.”

  Thomas raised his voice and called the deputy.

  Little Jon watched while Anderson Bush carefully drew two fishing rods, a tackle box, and an expensive target rifle from under the cedars. The deputy remained grimly silent until he had tied the fishing rods and the tackle box together with his handkerchief, and looped the gun strap over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Bean,” he said at last, “you not only have a very convenient memory, but you and that boy have an exceptional ability to locate things you claim you have no knowledge of. But I’ll ask you no more questions. I’ll leave that to the court.”

  “Very well,” snapped Thomas, “if that’s the way you want to play it. But make sure you check all the fingerprints on those things — and in the house as well.”

  “You can depend on that, Mr. Bean.”

  He Is Summoned

  RASCAL WAS WHINING forlornly when they got back, begging for Little Jon to take him out. Little Jon went over and petted him, quieting him with a promise for tomorrow, then followed Thomas into the house. It had been a long and difficult day, and he knew that Thomas was badly upset by all that had happened. That was the worst of it — knowing how Thomas felt, and knowing it had all come about because the Beans were trying to help him.

  Tonight, if it would have made matters any easier for the Beans, he would not have hesitated to go away. He could leave his knife in payment for Rascal, and he and the big dog could take their chances in the forest. But it was too late for that. It solved nothing, and it would only make things harder for Thomas.

  Sally and Brooks were still eating when they reached the kitchen. They were bursting with questions, but Mary Bean silenced them. “You look beat,” she said anxiously to Thomas. “What happened up at Macklins’?”

  Thomas told her. “So,” he finished wearily, “the cat’s about out of the bag. Or it will be soon — if Bush has his way.”

  “People!” Mary blazed. “Why do they want to make so much trouble? But we’ll talk about it after you eat. You two get washed. You’re filthy.”

  They cleaned up and ate silently. Finally Little Jon said unhappily, “I’m awfully sorry about all this, Mr. Bean. I wish I could do something to — to —”

  “Sorry? Why should you be sorry?”

  “Because of the trouble I’m causing.”

  Thomas sat up. “If there’s any apologizing to be done, I’m the one to do it. I apologize for the stupidity and meanness of my race. But honestly, we’re not all like the ones you’ve met here. Actually, there are some pretty nice people in this world — only there aren’t enough of them. It’s the troublemaking kind that keeps all the rest of us on the jump, and makes things the way they are. Maybe nature intended it that way — to keep prodding us so we’ll learn faster. I don’t really know.” He spread his hands. “I wish I knew what Bush is going to do.”

  “When he left,” said Little Jon, “he was thinking about the Marines, and finding out about Captain O’Connor.”

  Mary Bean gasped. “Oh, no! That would tie it.”

  Sally, helping with the dishes, said, “Jon how did you know what Mr. Bush was thinking?”

  “I — just knew.”

  Sally wrinkled her nose at him. “I know how you knew.” In a stage whisper, she added a
loofly, “You read minds.”

  Brooks gaped at her. “You’re crazy as a hoot owl!”

  Mary said, “Sally!” But Sally went on quickly, “Jon can! I’ve known it since yesterday. It’s, oh, lots of little things — like always passing me the right dish at the table before I ask for it.” She made a face at Brooks. “You didn’t know it, smartie. That proves girls are smarter than boys — except that Jon’s smarter than any of us. I think it’s wonderful. I wish I could do what he can.”

  “Thank Pete you can’t,” Brooks said with feeling. “Life wouldn’t be worth living around here.” He stared at Little Jon. “Sally’s only kidding, isn’t she?”

  Thomas Bean said, “It’s true, Brooks, but stow that down your hatch and keep it battened.” He frowned at Mary. “If Bush finds out about the O’Connors, that’s all he needs to know. Fingerprints won’t matter. He’ll haul us into court, and we’ll be forced to tell everything.”

  Thomas began snapping his fingers. Suddenly he lurched to his feet. “I’m going to call Miss Josie and arrange a private talk with her. She’s the only really understanding person around here, and if she knows the facts ahead of time, she’ll — What’s the matter, Mary?”

  Mary was shaking her head. “I’ve already tried to get her on the phone. I got so worried while you were up at Macklins’ that I had to do something. Miss Josie is away tonight. Tomorrow she’s got a busy morning in court, and she’s flying to Washington immediately afterward. She won’t be back till Monday.”

  Thomas sat down and began snapping his fingers again.

  Little Jon asked, “Who is Miss Josie?”

  “She’s Mrs. Cunningham,” Mary told him. “Judge Cunningham, really. But everyone calls her Miss Josie. She handles all the juvenile cases. Oh, I wish we could talk to her!”

  She looked knowingly at Thomas. “Did you have any luck this morning — rock-hunting?”

  “Yes. Very good luck. I’m taking Jon back first thing tomorrow. It may help his memory.”

  “Hey, can I go with you?” Brooks asked. “School’s out, and —”