Mrs. Roberto - Or the Widowy Worries of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “Jefford says you know Mrs. Roberto,” Thaddeus said to Captain Huffle.

  “Mrs. Roberto?” said the old salt, as if he must run through an entire catalog of like-named women.

  “Mrs. Dorothea Roberto,” said Thump with more emphasis than could be answered in a casual manner.

  “The parachutist,” said Thaddeus. “Mrs. Roberto.”

  “I have a small acquaintance with the lady,” admitted Captain Huffle with an odd mixture of pride and circumspection.

  “We have reason to believe, sir—” said Thump, bending his stocky frame over the seated Captain Huffle. “We have reason to believe that Mrs. Roberto is in some hazard.”

  Someone let out a gasp. The laundrywomen had risen from their seats and they closed in upon the Captains Broad and Huffle from behind. The Todd brothers had already reached the outskirts of the small crowd. Looking grim, Thump straightened to the limit of his concise stature. A second collective gasp followed close upon the first.

  “Ahem!” said Ephram, and Thump wondered if he had spoken out of turn. Eagleton said something like “Ooop!” and finally Mrs. Spark said, “Oh, dear!” which Thump considered strange since she had been apprised of Mrs. Roberto’s unfortunate situation in the kitchen.

  The bearded Moosepathian glanced back at the Spark family and was dismayed to recognize the target of their gaze. Had he not been so intent upon the imperiled state of Mrs. Roberto, he might have been conscious, before that moment, of an unaccustomed draft from somewhere in the area of his trousers’ back pockets.

  “Good heavens, will you look at it!” declared one of the laundrywomen with a cluck of her tongue that affected Thump like a poke in the ribs. She shook her head. “And the coat tom, too.”

  26. The Ubiquitous Imprint

  A low-lying fog prowled the waterfront, a cold damp breath that followed the men from the Faithful Mermaid as they wound through a series of alleys, and less than alleys, till they faced the back of Winter Street. Captain Huffle, who had once wrestled a dozen or more roughnecks in a Bangor saloon for a gold tooth, was yet a little cautious of waking old Nicholai Bergen.

  Thaddeus and Jefford were there, as well as the two old salts. Ephram and Eagleton were in the middle of this troop, and Thump, who was newly decked out in clothes borrowed from Mr. Spark, strode in the van. The Todd brothers Tom and Patrick, had requested to come along, as Fuzz Hadley was somehow involved in this business, and Tom in particular had expressed interest in modifying Fuzz’s appearance.

  If Captain Eban Huffle was not keen to rouse the proprietor of the house before them, he was yet a man to do his duty and with speed. He led the way along a narrow place between buildings till they came to Winter Street, where the dim lamplight was bright and glaring after the preceding dark.

  “Now, you understand,” said Captain Huffle to Thaddeus, “she doesn’t live here, not at any time of the year.”

  Thaddeus nodded. “If you knew where she did live—” he began.

  Captain Huffle shook his head, and, without further exchange, he advanced upon the steps of Bergen’s place till he realized that a dim light spilled across the stoop. “What’s this?” he wondered aloud. The front door of the house was wide open.

  Thaddeus walked several paces past Nicholai Bergen’s house; he stopped and listened, catching the sound of human feet scurrying into the surrounding dark. Something banged inside the building, and already Jefford Paisley and the Todd brothers were charging up the steps.

  With each passing moment, the Moosepathians felt more at sea. Attending the theater without the guiding presence of their chairman had seemed adventure enough, but then there had been the card in Thump’s pocket, Winifred Peal, the gang at the brown house, and the chase over roof and fence. Still the extraordinary events of that May night were not finished, for they must pursue once more the continuing hints of Mrs. Roberto’s unspecified peril. Now their odyssey took them to Winter Street, where it appeared breaking and entering had recently transpired.

  It was not simply the open door and the banging from within that foreboded ill doings, though these were strange enough; the front hall was littered with debris, as if a great wind had blown through. A door to their left opened and an old woman peeked out before she slammed it shut and shot the bolts. Gaslight burned dimly at the other end of the narrow hall, shivering with the pounding vibrations. A second door opened, and an elderly voice called out, “I’ll call the cops! I’ll open a window and shout!”

  “It’s all right,” piped Thaddeus. “We’re here to help,” but that door slammed shut as well.

  The house seemed right enough, aside from littered halls, but it was strangely partitioned, so that they had gone from one to another to still another corridor before they found a bald fellow in nothing but trousers and an unbuttoned shirt leaning over a struggling figure. The bald man let out a frightened cry when the first of the Faithful crowd rounded the corridor.

  “We’re here to help,” said Thaddeus again, almost in a squeak.

  “Mr. Spark?” said the man, staring first at Thaddeus and then at Thump. Not only did they look alike, but now they were similarly dressed.

  Thaddeus looked past the bald fellow at the wriggling figure on the floor—a gray-bearded man lay there, bound and gagged and clearly not happy about it. “Nicholai!” declared Thaddeus.

  The bald man was working at the knot behind the bound man’s skull, but with little success. “I’m a clerk, Mr. Spark, not a knotsman,” he said.

  “Nicholai, lay still,” said Thaddeus. “We’ll get you loose.”

  Captain Broad stepped past Eagleton and Ephram, a large knife suddenly appearing from a sheath beneath his coat. Nicholai Bergen went quite still at the sight of it, and in a moment his gag and bonds were cut away by an aged but steady hand. Suddenly, the air was filled with language that was highly mysterious to the Moosepathians. Mr. Bergen was upset, and rightly so, but his manner of expressing his mood was so curious to the members of the club that they were sure he must be articulating a foreign tongue.

  It was Ephram who noticed the open door. A single lighted lamp stood upon the floor of the room beyond, and there was such a scatter of debris about it that he wondered the house wasn’t on fire. Dutifully, he retrieved the lamp, lifting it by the bale so that the shadows about him sunk into the lower corners of the room. Behind the door, which was swung partway closed, was an advertisement that tugged at his memory.

  “What are you doing in there?” came Nicholai Bergen’s growl, but Ephram was already reading the bill: NEWLY ARRIVED FROM EUROPE! EXCLUSIVE TO PORTLAND’S DEERING OAKS THIS SATURDAY! “Get out of that room!” Nicholai said as he stormed past Eagleton and Jefford Paisley. He stopped in midsentence, however, and took in the wreckage.

  “Was it Fuzz Hadley, Nicholai?” Thaddeus asked, but the gray-haired veteran didn’t seem to hear.

  “Biscuits and barnacles!” said Captain Huffle, coming up behind.

  “They shouldn’t have done this,” said Nicholai, and there were almost tears in his eyes. “First Skelly Wilson and now—”

  “Skelly Wilson?” said Thaddeus.

  “Yes,” said the graybeard. “He came in by that window, maybe two weeks ago, and I stuffed him back through it before he knew which end was up.”

  Thump was in the doorway now; he had a strange look upon his face. He and Ephram blinked at one another. Eagleton and Jefford Paisley peered in past Thaddeus and Thump.

  Nicholai Bergen righted a pair of high-button shoes. He patted the silk material on one of the lower shelves. “I think they took one of the parachutes,” he said quietly. “But what were they in here for?”

  Other folk appeared in the hall, and the Faithful crowd pushed a little further into the small room. There were shoes and articles of clothing and books and other oddments strewn about.

  “What were they looking for?” said Nicholai Bergen. “And why would anyone take a parachute?”

  “Mrs. Alvina Plesock Dentin,” said Ephram.
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  “Yes?” said Eagleton, astonished that Ephram should pronounce that name just then.

  Ephram picked a book from the floor. “Why, it’s Arabella’s Winter Home!” he declared, as if he had discovered an old friend. “Here’s another. Wembley Upon the Hill! Good heavens, Thump! The noble lady has a very keen taste in literature!” Thump leaned into the room to look at the scattered books. Nicholai Bergen was assessing the disorder and had ceased to notice the other men. “Here is one by Mrs. Penelope Laurel Charmaine!” continued Ephram. “And another!”

  Thump stepped past the open door with an odd sort of caution. Having discerned that here was the room containing Mrs. Roberto’s effects, he was struck with a fearful and fearfully pleasurable sort of pain. He found it difficult to breathe of a sudden. What was Ephram saying?

  “Here’s one I haven’t read!” said Eagleton, who had joined Ephram in retrieving the scattered books and placing them on the shelf beyond the door. “It’s by a favorite of yours, Thump—Mrs. Rudolpha Limington Harold.” He held the book up to the light that Ephram still carried. “The Misery of Millicent Babbington,” he read aloud. “My, that sounds gripping!”

  Ephram came to a pair of boots, absently picked them up, then said, “Oh,” as if not sure what they were.

  Nicholai Bergen came to life just then and abruptly took the boots from Ephram. “What are you doing here, all of you?” he demanded. “What’s brought you here?”

  “Was it Fuzz Hadley?” asked Thaddeus again.

  “What?” said Nicholai. “Fuzz Hadley? Did he do this?” He leveled a dark glare on Thaddeus. “I wish I knew, believe me. They had me trussed up like a Christmas goose before I was half awake. But Fuzz Hadley, you say?”

  “Here’s The Rose Beneath the Street,” said Ephram. “That was a fine story.

  “What has Fuzz Hadley to do with anything or anyone in my house?” demanded Nicholai Bergen.

  “Do you know where Mrs. Roberto lives?” asked Thaddeus.

  “What about Fuzz Hadley?”

  “Mr. Thump and his friends,” said Thaddeus, “believe she might be in some sort of danger.”

  “Danger? Mrs. Roberto?”

  Thaddeus nodded, and soon a concise form of the tale was laid before the old man. Nicholai looked dark and gloomy. “Really,” he said when they were done. He rubbed at his beard, concern clouding his face. “And this Winifred said she knew where Mrs. Roberto is?”

  Eagleton thought a moment, then said, “Actually, what she said was, “Looking for some—?’”

  “Why haven’t you gone to the police?” said Nicholai impatiendy.

  “We only had what Mr. Eagleton heard,” said Thaddeus, “and wouldn’t Fuzz deny it! And what were they doing here, if they haven’t some plot afoot?”

  Nicholai turned away. “I’ll have to take stock and see what they got away with,” he said. “Can’t understand what they’d want with a parachute.” Then he looked back at Thump. “Her card, you say?”

  Thump nodded. He reached into his coat pocket to produce the article and a look of absolute horror fell across his face. He frantically patted at his pockets and searched through every corner of his habiliments. “It’s gone!” he said in his deep voice. “The card is gone.”

  “Your wallet, Thump!” said Ephram.

  “It’s gone,” said Thump. “They’re gone.”

  Nicholai Bergen’s face took on a fresh shade of misgiving. “Did you see the card?” he asked Thaddeus.

  “I didn’t think to ask,” said Thaddeus.

  “They must be in your coat, Thump,” said Eagleton.

  “Of course,” said Thump, though he continued to look lost, patting his pockets absendy. He said, “The important thing is to find Mrs. Roberto.”

  Still unconvinced, Nicholai swung his glance around the room. Jefford Paisley shrugged unhappily. The Todd brothers shook their heads.

  “Something is going on,” said Thaddeus, gesturing toward the room

  “And I’d like to know what it was,” said Nicholai. “Now, get out!”

  “Could you tell us where Mrs. Roberto lives?” asked Thaddeus.

  “I couldn’t,” said Nicholai, which, they realized later, might have meant either one of two different things. “But I’ll talk to the police if you won’t, and woe betide anyone with the wrong hand in this business.”

  Ephram had gotten the last of the books in some sort of order on the shelf. There were thirty or more of them, looking almost like a set of matching volumes though they were from several different authors, all but one of them women. The resemblance between the books stopped him for a moment. Nicholai was impatiendy herding everyone from the room, but Ephram had halted, more out of sudden inspiration than willfulness.

  “Look, Thump!” he said.

  “Hmmm?” said Thump.

  “Eagleton!”

  “Yes, Ephram?”

  “Look at the books!”

  They did. Even Nicholai Bergen stopped to peer at them. “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t believe there is a problem,” said Ephram. “But the imprints.”

  “Imprints?”

  The rest of the crowd could not see how a shelf of books could help them and they stood shuffling in the hall, but Eagleton suddenly said, “Why, yes, Ephram!”

  “Hmmm!” said Thump with specific gravity.

  “What is it?” demanded Nicholai, almost fearfully. Now he wouldn’t let them leave until he knew.

  “They are all the same,” said Ephram.

  “The publisher,” said Eagleton.

  “The imprint on the bindings,” said Ephram, and he pulled one of the books to show the old man. “They are all the same.”

  “And so—?” said Nicholai.

  “It is unexpected, is all,” said Ephram, taken aback by the old man’s indignant manner. “Seven or even eight authors—nine!—and all from the same publisher.” Ephram’s own library was gleaned from a profusion of publishing houses, and unless a given shelf was occupied by a set of matched volumes—an encyclopedia, say, or a multi-volume memoir—there might be a dozen different imprints upon the bindings. He opened the book in his hands and read aloud from the title page. “Bangor, S. Siegfried and Son, 1894.” He considered this, then he said simply “Bangor.”

  Thaddeus had moved back into the room to consider the shelf of books. He peered at the imprints. “What does that mean?” he wondered.

  “Perhaps there is some connection between them,” suggested Eagleton.

  “Siegfried is an exotic name,” said Thump in his deep bass. Mrs. Roberto, of course, was a highly exotic cognomen, quite in keeping with both the woman and her occupation.

  “Bangor,” said Ephram again. Detectives in books often solved a case on such enigmatic hints.

  “Yes,” said Eagleton with special emphasis. “Bangor.”

  “You’re going to Bangor?” said Thaddeus. He still did not understand their logic and he stood scratching his head and staring at the books.

  “We will to old haunts,” said Eagleton. “What do you say, old friend?” he directed to Thump.

  Clearly Thump’s mind was miles ahead. “To Bangor,” he said quietly.

  “To Bangor!” declared Ephram.

  “To Bangor!” echoed Eagleton.

  27. Pig in the Loft

  Even into the late nineteenth century, the natural disposition of an owl to rid a barn and fields of rats and mice was often translated by farm people into something like a good omen. The silent flight, the white face and wide eyes that never seemed to sleep, the ghosdy voice were easily imagined into something from the spirit world. Hercules himself respected the owl in the loft, though he might ward against the shadow of its wing for the sake of the ducks, who feared it. Flopped upon his side, the great white pig might have looked, from the barn rafters, like a ghost himself.

  Hercules heard the owl touch its perch, and it was strange to the pig, experiencing the presence of that great bird from inside the barn; but it wa
s already strange to feel the barn floor beneath him, drumming when he moved his feet, groaning under his weight. The ducks had wandered the barnyard till they found the wall by Hercules’s stable, and when he grunted they quacked and muttered conversationally on the other side. The cows and horses clumped and shifted, a yearling calf blatted itself to sleep. There were cobwebs at the windows, and flies, desultory in the cool of the night. Starlight hardly pierced the dusty panes and the moon was low. The barn was dark.

  Hercules had been feeling ill since morning (for days he had been feeling ill since morning), but the very thing that afflicted him also called to him and he would have eaten it, or drunk it, if it had been at hand. He did not truly understand this contradiction in his behavior, but he sensed it on some porcine level and it troubled his heart.

  The slop he’d been given tonight had been peculiar; it put him in mind of the white trees down by the pond. Being a pig, he had eaten it. He lay on his side now and closed his eyes, though the dark of the barn was itself a balm to his aching head.

  He was hardly aware when he began to feel better; even as the dull throbbing fell away, he fell away into sleep. Hercules dreamt he was in the loft with the owl and also that there was nothing unusual in this. He had wings on his feet. He could soar above the roofs of the farm and see the light in Farmer Fern’s bedroom window. He could hear the man’s snores rumble through the night. Hercules grunted as he slept and the ducks on the other side of the wall woke briefly and muttered back.

  He was conscious in his dream of the owl’s great gray wings, and it was impossible to say if they flew together or if he and the great bird were one and the same. The riddle troubled him only for a moment, for soon he was marveling at the hills and fields, the groves and stone walls, and then he was aware of a carriage stopping on the other side of the hill toward town and a foxlike presence stealing close to the house.

  “He-e-e-re, pig, pig, pig, pig, pig,” came a man’s voice through the dark. “He-e-e-re, pig, pig, pig, pig, pig. Her-r-rcule-e-e-es.”