“That was a night,” said Mr. Knight, shaking his head in reminiscence. “I didn’t know these old legs had that much ginger in them any more. A little bit stiff this morning, but it was worth it, every minute.”
“Yes, they certainly treated us like royalty,” Ronald agreed, “especially considering that we’re strangers here.” He went on, looking directly at Mr. Knight: “Or are you acquainted here in town? I thought I heard you using your phone last night.” Ronald saw no harm in a shot in the dark.
“You did?” asked Mr. Knight in surprise. He appeared to recollect. “Oh, I remember now. I called down once to room service. That must have been what you heard.”
Ronald considered this for the feeble support it gave to his theory. But that Mr. Knight had been hired by Uglancie hardly seemed to be a theory. He was virtually ready to accept it as proven fact. That Mr. Knight was Barry’s father was ridiculous on the face of it, and he would never have accepted it for a minute if he’d been more alert.
At the station Ronald sent a telegram to the paper to inform them of his destination. Then the trip to Half Moon Lodge was begun without further incident.
When they left Union City, the ground was covered with a light layer of snow, which had been worn thin by recurrent drizzles during the past couple of days as the mercury inched above the freezing point. But as they progressed farther up into the hills, the snow lay deeper, and neither the rain nor advancing temperatures had made much impression on it. Though far from the soot of the city, it still gave the impression of having lain on the ground for a long time.
“We had a couple of real deep snows a little before Christmas,” the bus driver explained, “and most of it’s still with us. That’s all to the good. It helped out the vacation trade up at Hank Hudson’s Lodge—that’s where you’re going, ain’t it? Yep, a good deep snow is just the thing for winter sports, but this rain the last couple of days didn’t help any. Drove everybody indoors, I understand.”
“Is it a very big place?” Ronald questioned him. “The reason I ask is that we didn’t bother to make reservations.”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of room,” the driver assured them. “Rooms filled up, they pull out a few extra mattresses in the main room. That’s the kind of place Hank’s is. But he won’t be full up now. This last week was his big week, and after this there won’t be much doin’ except on weekends. I just carted a load of customers away Sunday night, and there haven’t been many coming in to replace them. You won’t need reservations. Fact is, Hank’s is one place you can’t just call up for a reservation.”
“Why not?” Ronald inquired.
“No telephone,” the driver chuckled. “That’s one of the attractions of the place, I guess. Lots of businessmen want to get away for a few days where their offices can’t reach them. Got electric lights, though—run their own generator. You’ll be comfortable enough up at Hank’s.”
The part about no telephone sounded like an unusual concession to the rustic atmosphere, and it both pleased and disturbed Ronald—pleased him because it made the lodge sound like a rather isolated place that might have attracted Walter Desmond; disturbed him because his office might have trouble getting in touch with him if they wished to.
The traffic was light, but the near-freezing temperatures made the road slick in spots, so the driver did not try to make time. This was a small, independent bus line, and apparently no one worried very much about keeping to a rigid schedule. There were other passengers, but these got on and off at the several small villages through which they passed, most of them giving the driver a familiar “Howdy.” It seemed that Ronald and his two companions were the only travelers who intended to go all the way up to the lodge.
At one of their stopovers, as noon approached, Ronald suggested they might as well have their dinner. The driver thought this a fine idea, and ate with them. What this did to his schedule they couldn’t guess, but Ronald imagined that this was a one-man bus company, with their driver-owner representing the whole works.
The lodge was a mile and three quarters beyond the last village, and the bus brought them right to the door. As this was as far as the bus went, Ted pointed out when he was able to get Ronald’s private ear, it was a cinch that Walter Desmond hadn’t gone much farther north than this.
“Trip back every afternoon at five o’clock,” the driver reminded them in parting, and added a word that they felt inclined to doubt: “Sharp!”
They had had no clear idea of what they expected, but the lodge was a nicely designed affair, set in colorful surroundings. Fir trees were numerous, their boughs heavily weighted with the wet snow, and a few not-too-steep hills nearby suggested some pleasant skiing was available when they wanted it. There were no other buildings in the area, however, except for a few small shacks in the rear which were apparently associated with the lodge.
The indoors was about what the exterior had led them to expect, comfortable quarters with a backwoods atmosphere. A huge fire blazed in the fireplace, but this must have been part of the effect, for steam radiators spoke of central heating. A huge bearskin hanging upon the wall behind the desk immediately attracted the eye, as did a number of mounted trophies suggestive of big-game hunting. Only one guest was in evidence, sitting reading in a chair, so that the lodge was hardly up to its capacity of an estimated twenty-five or thirty guests.
Ronald registered for the three of them, then struck up an easy conversation with the man at the desk, who introduced himself as Hank Hudson.
“Then you’re not crowded here just now?” Ronald queried.
“Oh, no, not just now, though last week was a good one for us. The first day of the New Year is an awkward one—either people got where they wanted to go before that, or else they’re on their way home. That’s Mr. Lane sitting in the chair over there—you’ll soon get acquainted with him. And we have a couple of other guests who are outdoors just now, and some others who are up in their rooms getting ready to leave on the late afternoon bus. You probably won’t have a chance to meet them. But I’m expecting another load up tomorrow, so you’ll have plenty of companionship.”
Ronald nodded toward the trophies. “Are there really bears and moose around here?”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t like to say no.” The proprietor shook his head mysteriously, then as Ronald smiled, he added more seriously, “No fooling, there are some deer around here, and if my guests have hopes of bagging something bigger, who am I to discourage them?” He was looking over their baggage, and noticed the absence of rifles. “Think you might want to try your luck? I’ve got rifles to loan, if you do.”
“No, thanks, I guess it’s a little out of my line.” He nodded toward Ted. “My brother’s a skiing enthusiast, though. Think you can fix him up?”
“Oh, sure, I’ve got skiing equipment available, too—or almost anything else you might want.”
“How are the hills?” asked Ted.
“Some of them are all right, though this thaw has sure been a business-killer. You an expert?”
“No, just a beginner.”
“Then you’ll be able to find a practice hill, all right. It depends a good deal on how the sun hits.”
He came around the desk to help them with their bags. “Will you men be wanting something to eat? You’re a little late for dinner, but my wife can fix you something if you want it.”
“I don’t think so.” Ronald looked to Ted and Mr. Knight for their agreement. “We ate coming up.”
“Then supper’s at six, and you can meet the other guests then. Meanwhile, if there’s anything you want, just let me or my wife know. I won’t say ring, because there aren’t any buzzers.”
Having settled down in their room, Ronald asked of Ted, “Well, what do you feel like doing this afternoon?”
“What do you want to do?” Ted countered. “After all, we’re here on business, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are. Even though this is a holiday, we’d better try to get some results soon to justi
fy the swindle sheet. The truth is, though, that I haven’t had much sleep the last two nights, and I don’t see much chance of accomplishing anything until I’ve seen who else is here at supper.”
“You’re expecting Barry Knight?” Ted demanded.
“You never can tell. But if it turns out we’re on a wild-goose chase, the only thing that will cheer me up is remembering that we’ve led Freddie Uglancie off the trail, too. I can see you don’t care much for the idea of a nap, so why don’t you try out one of the skiing hills? There’s no reason you shouldn’t get in as much fun as you can, and it’ll help me if you sort of scout around and get the lay of the land a little.”
Ted thought this was a good idea, and left the room a few minutes later to pick up a pair of skis and poles, along with some well-meant advice from Hank Hudson. Although Ronald fell asleep soon afterward, some inner clockwork awakened him in time for the next step on his schedule.
He was anxious to get a look at the guests who were just departing, on the chance that Barry Knight or Walter Desmond might be among them. This task proved simple enough. Barry Knight certainly was not among those leaving, and since the men appeared to be a group all well acquainted with each other, it wasn’t likely Desmond was among them, either. Well, Ronald would just have to wait for suppertime to get a look at the other guests.
Back in the reception room, Mr. Lane was still reading in a chair, and Ronald sat down near him. Thereupon Mr. Lane promptly dropped his magazine and appeared eager for conversation. They exchanged names and home towns, but if Ronald was a little worried that Mr. Lane might prove too prying, he could have saved himself the trouble. Mr. Lane was more interested in talking than in listening.
He talked on and on, adding a good many details of his home life that Ronald wasn’t the least bit interested in. But not having anything else to do just then, Ronald appeared to be attentive, and Mr. Lane rambled happily on. Finally he leaned forward confidentially.
“Would you think it terrible of me if I made a confession? My name really isn’t Lane at all, and I’m not from Baltimore as I said. I didn’t mean to deceive anyone except my secretary; I would have told any of the guests if they’d asked me, but no one seemed interested. My real name’s Payne, and I’m from Detroit.”
Ronald started. Detroit, the Motor City—did that mean anything? He had never forgotten that the invention Walter Desmond was working on was a new kind of car battery. Hadn’t Desmond’s trip up here had something to do with his invention? That was the best theory Ronald had been able to work out, and a gentleman from Detroit certainly fitted into the picture.
CHAPTER 13
The Three Guests
Ted came in, fresh and enthusiastic from his skiing, but without very much to report.
“There isn’t much around here, Ron. No one lives any closer than the village. But there are a few deserted cabins where somebody could hole up for a while if they wanted to. They’re not in sight from here, but a man told me about them.”
“Who were you talking to?” Ronald asked.
“He didn’t give his name, but he’s staying here at the lodge, so you’ll meet him at supper. He talks rather queerly—a lot of big words, and everything. He sounds like a college professor to me.”
“Professor Villinger,” Ronald remarked. “I picked up his name from the register. Did you see anyone else?”
“Not to talk to. Somebody else came in, a big, heavy man.”
“Carrying a rifle?”
“No. Ought he to be?”
“Not necessarily,” said Ronald, with a deep breath that suggested exasperation, “but I never expected to see so many persons at a hunting lodge who weren’t interested in hunting. Mr. Payne, who goes under the name of Mr. Lane, doesn’t seem to be interested in anything except sitting and reading in the reception room and talking to everybody who comes along. He’s the kind of talker who’s hard to break away from, unless you want to be openly rude to him—probably has bored everyone stiff so they know enough to keep out of his reach. Also, he comes from Detroit.”
“Is that bad?” Ted demanded.
“I wouldn’t know, except that all along I’ve had a secret hunch that somebody from Detroit would be getting mixed up in this affair. It fits in rather neatly with Walter Desmond’s invention and his reason for coming up here.”
“Maybe Desmond only came up for a vacation, too,” Ted suggested. “I imagine he could use it, after being in prison for six years.”
“I suppose so,” Ronald agreed, “except that he must have been out of prison for a month or so before he came. But six years—that’s an odd period of time. Does it mean anything to you, Ted?”
“No, I don’t think so. Should it?”
“Well, I’ve done quite a bit of police-court work, and to me six years just stands out like a sore thumb every time I hear it. Did you ever hear of the ‘statute of limitations’?”
“I guess I’ve heard of it,” said Ted vaguely, “but I don’t know enough about it to explain it.”
“It’s a law stating that a man must be accused of a crime within a certain period of time. I haven’t studied law, but I imagine that the time may vary with different states and for different crimes, and certain serious crimes like murder and espionage may be exempt, while of course it doesn’t apply to fugitives. But in our state, and I think a good many other states, the period is six years. Unless a man is charged with the crime within six years of the time it is committed, he is free ever afterward even if it can be definitely pinned on him.”
“That sounds rather generous,” Ted decided.
“It’s one of the fundamentals of our freedom. For instance, what would you do if out of a clear blue sky somebody accused you of committing a crime twenty years ago?”
“I think I’d have a pretty good alibi,” Ted grinned. “I wasn’t born yet.”
“No, but I think you know what I mean. You’d have a tough time proving your case, getting witnesses together on your behalf, and so on. Besides, I think there’s an underlying philosophy back of this law. If a man has managed to live down an earlier offense, created a good life for himself without getting into further trouble, he ought to be given the benefit of any doubt. Now let’s see how this applies to Desmond. Here we have a man who wanted to stay in prison for six years, which just happens to be the same period of time as the statute of limitations.”
“I don’t get it, Ron,” said Ted frankly.
“Well, let’s suppose this man had committed two crimes, a lesser one and a greater one, and let’s suppose that he was caught and convicted of the smaller crime while no one suspected the bigger one. Now applying for a parole would mean reopening his case again, and he might have been very anxious that his case should not be reopened until the statute of limitations had run out. As soon as the six years was up, Desmond did apply for a parole and was promptly released.”
“You really think that’s maybe what happened?” asked Ted, his eyes squinting into a frown. “I thought we were up here because of a chance that Desmond might have been innocent.”
“I don’t know, Ted. My theory doesn’t quite fit in with what I’ve been able to learn about Desmond. Everybody who knew him seems to have held him in high regard, even the man he robbed. But when a man stays in prison longer than he has to, it does suggest some sort of cover-up, doesn’t it?”
Ted snapped his fingers. “Something else I forgot to tell you. Do you know what Mr. Knight was doing this afternoon?”
“I thought he was taking a nap in his room.”
“No, he wasn’t. I saw him walking down to the village. It was tough walking, too, for an older man. I felt kind of sorry for him, but it must have been important.”
“Must have been,” Ronald agreed. “I thought he was acting pretty tired this morning. The lodge has almost everything he could want, including cigars. Besides, I’m sure he could have got a ride down from Hank if he’d asked for it.”
“What do you think he wanted, then?”
<
br /> “What do you think?” asked Ronald pointedly.
“It must have been the telephone, then. He wanted to get in touch with somebody.”
“That’s just what I think,” said Ronald with emphasis.
The brothers were up in their room, preparatory to going down to supper. As they were about to leave the room, Ronald said:
“Something to keep in mind, Ted. We still don’t know whether Walter Desmond is here at the lodge, but if he is it’s possible he’s using a different name. We don’t know what he looks like, but keep your ears open to see if you can come up with anything that suggests one of the guests is really Desmond.”
In the dining room, as the guests arrived, Hank performed all the necessary introductions. Besides Ronald, Ted, and Mr. Knight, there appeared to be only three other guests: Mr. Lane, Professor Villinger, and the heavy man Ted had seen whose name was given as Mr. Bogus. The newcomers were also introduced to Mrs. Hudson, who was busy serving the meal and so did not sit with them.
“A little cozier group than we’ve been used to this past week,” said Hank as they took their seats, and he repeated his expectation of more guests the next day, as though that would be an added attraction.
The conversation opened up as the meal was begun. Mr. Lane spoke pleasantly to the other men, but apparently they had learned the hard way not to give him too much encouragement. In addition, Mr. Bogus was the kind who liked to talk, too. Although he had “big business” written all over him, he spoke mostly about birds, and Ronald supposed it was quite natural for a businessman on vacation to show greater interest in his hobby than in his work.
“Saw a scarlet tanager today,” said Mr. Bogus, casting a triumphant look around the table. “What do you think of that?”
The others hardly knew what to think, not knowing whether scarlet tanagers were rare or common, and only the professor had an opinion.
“Are you sure it was a scarlet tanager? They’re a migrating bird.”
“No doubt about it whatever,” said Mr. Bogus in his booming voice. “I got the glasses squarely on him, and you couldn’t miss that flaming red body and the black wings.”
The Star Reporter Mystery Page 10
