Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Mine!”

  “You are afraid, Logan. You are afraid to understand Digory’s God.”

  She was challenging him! However sweet and charming, this was still a boldfaced challenge.

  “I think you are running from God,” she went on. “I once knew a man who tried to run from God. But he knew no peace until the moment he stopped.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Lady Margaret. But perhaps it is hard for you to understand someone who has no need for religious crutches. Your faith may be fine for people like you and Digory. I won’t belittle you for it. But so far I’ve left God alone, and He’s been kind enough to return the favor.” Even as Logan spoke the words, the memory of his hastily spoken vow on the flooded road shot through his mind. He hadn’t wanted to be left alone then.

  Well, that was then—he had been caught up in the moment. It had been a foolish and sentimental reaction. He could take care of himself.

  Yet the words reverberated through his brain with a hollow and foreign sound. He was lying even to himself. What about all the times in his life when he hadn’t been able to make it alone? The time his mother had helped him out of the jam over the Fairgate fiasco, and later when Skittles had taken him in as a fifteen-year-old who knew no more about the streets of London than an innocent babe. And how many times when his luck had run sour would a friend lend him a quid?

  But that had nothing to do with God! That was people—he had done the same thing for his friends! It had nothing to do with God or Digory or Lady Margaret or any of it!

  But she was speaking again. “Many people consider religion a crutch, Logan. But that’s because they don’t grasp that what it really boils down to is a relationship, an intimate friendship. I have not chosen to live my life as a Christian primarily because I am weak and He is strong and I am unable to get through life on my own. Though of course that is true—we all are weak, and can’t make it on our own, and we do need His help. And someday you will see those truths in your own life. But primarily, Logan, something even greater draws me: simply the fact that He is the God who made me, who knows me, who loves me . . . and I can know Him intimately! Oh, Logan, I hate to think where I would be if He left me alone!”

  “I haven’t done too badly,” he said steeling himself against her passionate words of truth.

  “You are entirely satisfied with your life?”

  “Completely!” His voice sounded firm and confident. Who besides Logan could have been aware of the stark hypocrisy behind it?

  “You are a very fortunate young man,” she answered, and Logan knew that she saw through him as if his very soul had been naked.

  But rather than feeling a sense of conviction, he withdrew yet further into the fortress he was trying to build around himself. It angered him to sit there exposed and foolish before the self-righteous old woman! She had no right to do this to him!

  “Yes . . . very fortunate!” he repeated, glaring at her. Then stood quickly and strode from the kitchen without another word.

  He didn’t have to take insults like that from anyone, even the grand Lady of Stonewycke. For the moment the irony was lost on Logan that she had not insulted or belittled him in any way. She had, in fact, been nothing but kindly in her tone. It would have made it easier on him in that moment had she responded in kind and tried to crush him beneath her noble heel. He could have taken that . . . understood it. But not this, not kindness in exchange for his rudeness.

  The crisp air of the early evening jolted him like a slap to a man in panic. That was one thing he couldn’t do—panic. He had to pull himself together. He had to think clearly. He had given himself one more day, and he needed to make the best use of it.

  He crossed the lawn in the direction of the stable when a figure came striding toward him, arm raised in a wave.

  “Logan, there ye are!” It was Jesse Cameron.

  “Jesse,” he said without enthusiasm. Here was a friend who had saved his life, to whom he had pledged his loyalty. But now he wanted no friends in Strathy, no ties.

  “I’ve got a telegram fer ye.” Her voice was grave and in her eyes was a look of deep concern.

  “I suppose you’ve read it,” snapped Logan as he whipped the envelope from her hand.

  “That ’tisna my habit,” she replied, and Logan could see he had hurt her. “Telegrams ’most always bring bad news, ye ken.”

  He wished he had the guts to say he was sorry. Her friendship had meant something to him. But he could not flinch now. This was no time for repentant deeds like apologies. No time even for smiles. He let her turn and walk away just as he had left Lady Margaret—saying nothing, giving nothing. As she went he watched her—sadly, but with resolve.

  When she had walked dejectedly out of sight, he turned his attention to the telegram. He looked at it for a long and agonizing moment. No one knew he was here except his mother. And only one or two of his London friends knew how to get in touch with her.

  With a shaking hand he ripped open the flap. He would not be able to cope with it just now if something had happened to his mother. But the telegram was not from Frances Macintyre.

  LOGAN

  CHASE MORGAN HAS LEARNED WHERE YOU ARE STOP HE IS STILL IN THE CHOKEY BUT THAT WILL NOT STOP HIM STOP KEEP A LOOKOUT AND BE CAREFUL STOP

  BILLY COCHRAN

  47

  A Deal at the Bluster ’N Blow

  At last something was starting to happen. Sprague had begun to fear he might just end up rotting in this hick town.

  Sprague’s contact at Stonewycke had just passed on an interesting report. Early that afternoon Macintyre had gone off alone. Although that was not altogether unusual in the context of his job, this time he had ridden by horse to a lonely, uninhabited spot called Ramsey Head—hardly a likely place for the services of a mechanic. The field hand from the estate said Macintyre had returned empty-handed except for a piece of wood he was carrying. Curious, Sprague had concluded that this excursion must have ended with the same result as the one Macintyre had taken several days ago to Braenock Ridge. Perhaps they were both wild goose chases. But the piece of wood was interesting; obviously Macintyre bore continued watching. It certainly indicated that he had not abandoned the hunt. If he was sticking to it after all this time, possibly he was on to something.

  But sitting idly about was getting to him. For a diversion, after hearing what the man had to say, Sprague decided to have a walk out to the promontory himself. By the time he arrived dusk was approaching; he had no time for a thorough appraisal, but it looked as likely as any place to hide a treasure. But with no map or specific instructions, it might as well have been a needle in a haystack. Therefore, there remained no alternative but to watch Macintyre. He was still the one with the clues—whatever they might be.

  Following his afternoon trek, Sprague returned to the Bluster ’N Blow. When Logan had moved up the hill to Stonewycke, Sprague saw no further reason to remain at Roy Hamilton’s dingy place. The Bluster ’N Blow was only a step or two above it, but at least it was clean and the food was edible. He now sat at one of the rough tables in the common room stirring his coffee and waiting for his dinner to be served. He was also anxiously awaiting the arrival of the inn’s two new guests. They had checked in while he was out. But sneaking a look at Cobden’s register, he had learned their names: Frank Lombardo and Willie Cabot.

  Sprague’s boss had mentioned Morgan’s interest in Macintyre. He definitely recognized Lombardo’s name as one of Morgan’s transplants from the Chicago crowd. It was only too bad they had found Macintyre before Sprague had finished his business with the London con man. If they got to him first, it would be the end of Macintyre, and the end of Sprague’s mission. And his boss didn’t like excuses. His motto had always been, “Get it done. Whatever you have to do—just get it done.” Even if Morgan’s men put an end to Logan, his boss would blame Sprague. “If you want to work for me, Sprague,” he would say, “getting it done is the only thing I care about.”

  So he would
have to try to handle these two somehow.

  Sprague lifted his cup to his lips and drank deeply of the strong black brew. They never could make good coffee on this island.

  But he quickly forgot the bitter taste in his mouth when, peering over the rim of his earthenware cup, he saw the two newcomers enter the room. Both were veritable hulks, typical of the thugs Morgan liked to surround himself with.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” said Sprague in an easygoing, friendly tone.

  The two stopped cold, and a flicker of recognition crossed Lombardo’s swarthy face. Sprague had met him some years ago, but he had not thought the younger man would remember. Not that it mattered.

  “You talkin’ to us?” answered Lombardo with an accent that combined Bronx, Sicilian, and a touch of cockney with a most curious result.

  “None other,” replied Sprague, though an answer was academic since there were no others in the place.

  “Do we know you?”

  “It’s possible. Have you ever been to Chicago?”

  “What’d you want?” Lombardo’s voice grew menacing and his eyes grew wary. Sprague had never been mistaken for a cop before, but Lombardo appeared more blessed with muscles than with brains.

  “Come on, Lombardo, do I look like a Fed?”

  At that moment Sandy Cobden burst into the common room bearing a tray laden with Sprague’s dinner.

  “Here ye go, Mr. Sprague,” said the innkeeper, setting the heavy tray down with a deep sigh. “Hope I didna keep ye waitin’ too long. Ne’er hae acquired the knack fer kitchen work. My missus used t’ do all that in years past. Noo that she’s gone I jist dinna get much chance t’ practice. We can go fer months wi’oot a single guest. It picks up a wee in summer, but here tis April an’ sich a foul one at that, an’ I’ve more guests at one time than . . . than I dinna ken when.”

  He turned to his other guests as he emptied the tray of its burden, setting plates and bowls before Sprague. “I’ll be bringin’ yer supper in directly,” he said. “Jist hae yersel’s a seat.”

  He paused in his steady chatter, perhaps expecting a thank you, but since none was immediately forthcoming, he swept up his tray and bustled away.

  “Sprague?” ruminated Lombardo thoughtfully.

  “Five years ago,” prompted Sprague, “Leighton Club, Chicago.”

  “That place was only open to a very special clientele.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, if you really was there, then you’ll know the maitre d’.”

  Sprague shook his head as if he were placating a child. “Benny Margolis. Do you want a description, too?”

  “No, I guess you’re on the level.”

  “Have a seat,” Sprague went on, confident that his estimation of Lombardo’s intelligence was not too far wrong. “Your silent friend, too.”

  The two hoods took seats opposite Sprague, barely squeezing their brawny frames into the narrow, high-backed bench. Cobden returned with their meal and the three spent the next few minutes engrossed in their food.

  At length Lombardo spoke, his words muffled as he continued to chew a large hunk of meat pasty.

  “Prohibition . . . them were the days,” he said. “I took it on the lam right after the crash—figured they wouldn’t be able to afford it no more, and I was right—they repealed it lickity-split.”

  “You should have stuck around. As I hear it the mob doesn’t need boot-legging to keep it going.”

  “Yeah . . . well, I had other reasons too,” replied Lombardo cryptically.

  “So,” Sprague went on, pushing back his empty plate and pouring himself another cup of coffee, “then you migrated to England and hooked up with Morgan—?”

  “What about Morgan?” broke in Cabot sharply, breaking his long silence.

  “Relax,” said Sprague, then turning to Lombardo, “tell your friend to take it easy. I’ve got a business proposition for you, but we won’t get anywhere if you keep jumping down my throat.”

  “Okay,” replied Lombardo. “Put a lid on it, Willie.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” growled Cabot. He was apparently beginning to feel the imbalance of being the odd man out as the only Britisher among these two Americans. “Don’t forget who we’re working for, Frank.”

  “You got me wrong,” said Sprague, feeling the need to placate the Londoner. “I figured I might be able to help you out.”

  “What’d you know about us?”

  “Why don’t I begin at the beginning?” said Sprague, adopting his most congenial tone. “Here, have a cup of coffee.”

  “Ain’t there nothin’ stronger?” put in Lombardo.

  “Later; I’ll buy. In the meantime . . .” Without completing his sentence, Sprague poured out coffee for his companions. “Now,” he began again, “as it happens we all have the same interest here in Port Strathy. And that happens to be a third-rate con artist by the name of Macintyre—”

  “Macintyre!” repeated Morgan’s men in unison.

  “That’s right, boys. I’m afraid this is a small country and word gets around fast. Morgan wants Macintyre’s skin, and I know that’s what you’re doing here.”

  “What’s your interest in him?”

  “I want him, too. Only I need him alive and well.”

  “So what’s this business proposition of yours?”

  “Like I said, I need Macintyre in one piece. So it seems that at the moment, we are somewhat at cross purposes. When I’m through with him, you fellows can do what you please. Now, I’m willing to make it worth your while to hold off for a spell—say one thousand pounds apiece?

  “What do you want with him?” asked Cabot, determined not to let his guard down so easily.

  “The specifics aren’t important. Let’s just say he has some information I need—that is, he will have soon,” answered Sprague.

  “Two thousand pounds . . . that must be some information he has!” said Lombardo, stuffing a thickly buttered bannock into his mouth.

  “Not the sort of thing that would be of interest to you or me,” answered Sprague evasively, “but there are some highly placed individuals who are anxious to have it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Cabot.

  “Aw, com’on,” prodded Lombardo, “it ain’t like we’re not going to do Morgan’s job—we’ll just tell him we got delayed a few days.”

  “Exactly how long?” asked Cabot.

  “That’s the rub,” replied Sprague, “I can’t pin it down exactly.”

  “Two days,” said Cabot, answering his own question, “then we move in.”

  “I’m afraid if we pressure him, he’ll bolt. Then neither of us will get what we want—and you’ll be out a cool thousand.” Sprague directed this last remark to Lombardo, whom he judged as most sympathetic.

  “We got Morgan to think of,” said Lombardo, almost apologetically. “He’s not a man you try to con. And if we don’t bring him Macintyre’s head, he’ll have ours.”

  Sprague leaned back on the bench to ponder his dilemma.

  Even if he withheld Macintyre’s whereabouts, this town was so small that they’d locate him in an hour if they put their minds to it, however vacant that part of their anatomy was. His only chance had been to deal with them, and that would have worked if it hadn’t been for that hardnose Cabot. There was no way of knowing how close Macintyre was to finding the loot, if it existed. He might even have already found it and was only sticking around to avert suspicion.

  Sprague knew he now had no choice but to force Macintyre’s hand! If he had nothing, well, they were both out of luck. Sprague knew his boss would be none too pleased. But in part it was his fault, too. Hadn’t he said he would take care of Morgan? Obviously his slick manuevering had not worked too well in that arena, so he couldn’t blame Sprague.

  “Give me three days,” bargained Sprague, “and you get two thousand each.” It wasn’t his money, Sprague reasoned to himself.

  The two hoodlums looked at each other, then nodded toward
Sprague. Lombardo appeared much more satisfied with the deal than his cohort, who looked as if three days was an interminably long wait for his sport.

  48

  Digory’s Clues Unfold

  Logan stared once more at Billy’s telegram.

  Somehow he had let himself forget about the threat of Morgan, which had been hanging over him for weeks. As he reread the words he felt as if a heavy boulder were resting on his shoulders.

  After receiving the telegram, Logan had climbed the steep, narrow steps to Digory’s room. Now he slumped into the coarse, straight-backed chair that had probably been there when the groom had occupied these same quarters.

  He had just told Lady Margaret what a lucky man he was, spitting the words out defiantly.

  Some luck!

  This turn of events left him no alternative but to get out of Port Strathy as fast as possible. If Morgan knew he was here, no doubt a couple of his thugs would be hot on his tail, if they weren’t here already. His own sense of panic was dulled by the events of recent days, but suddenly Logan thought of Morgan’s hoodlums tainting the quiet peacefulness of Port Strathy. These were dangerous and merciless men—look what they had done to Skittles! And now they were coming to Port Strathy . . . and Logan had brought them here!

  Even if he left immediately, the men looking for him would cause trouble. And these locals would be foolish enough and loyal enough to stand up to the thugs. They could be hurt trying to protect him, never realizing that he had double-crossed them himself.

  As much as Logan wanted to convince himself that they cared no more for him than he cared for them, he could not do so. Jesse Cameron had saved his life at the risk of her own. Lady Margaret would no more turn on him than his own mother would. He had little doubt Alec would stand up to anyone who threatened one he loved. And Allison . . . that look he had seen in her eyes an hour ago could not quickly be erased from memory. She had changed after Fairgate’s visit! She cared about him. And she too would protect him.