by Helen Wells
Cherry’s job was to pay a call on Mr. Purdy and try to look for the money or to trap him into revealing some information. She went as early as she decently could, Dr. Lowell excusing her. There was no point in going too early, for the neighborhood knew Purdy was a night owl and a late riser.
At ten o’clock she knocked on the door of Pep Purdy’s cottage. No one answered. The door was locked, the windows were opened only a few inches and made immovable by safety catches. All the lights in the house were on, in broad daylight.
“Purdy must really be nervous,” Cherry thought, “and maybe growing peculiar.” She walked through the small orchard to his barn, whistling and stepping on crackling twigs so that Purdy would hear her coming. She did not want to surprise him and raise a barrier of mistrust, or incur his resentment. She still did not really know whether Purdy was a dangerous man, as Mac insisted, but she was going to be cautious.
The barn door was locked and the barn windows were dark. Cherry peered in but saw no signs of life inside. That was puzzling and discouraging. She sat down on the grass, out of the August sun, prepared to wait as long as necessary. She would be careful not to mention Mac Cook, whom Purdy apparently still had never quite caught a glimpse of in this area, nor mention the Eplers.
At once she heard the door bolt being opened from the inside. The barn door opened part way and the photographer emerged. He was not glad to have a visitor.
“You here again, Miss Nurse?” He half closed the barn door so that she could not see in. “Would you be so good as to explain why you were looking in my barn window?”
“Just looking around for you, Mr. Purdy. I’m sorry if I intruded.” She wondered what he had been doing in the darkened barn, but Purdy was quicker than she.
“I was developing some films,” he said. “I have a darkroom in my barn, you see.”
“How convenient,” Cherry said politely. “Isn’t it a hot day? Your barn probably is the coolest place around here. The girls at Blue Water were wishing they had a cooler place to rehearse in, you know they’re—”
Purdy turned away, bored and annoyed. Cherry talked resolutely on.
“—getting ready for their final show of the season, the water pageant. I came over to ask you about costumes and—”
“Yes, yes, costumes, props, of course I will lend them. Now if you will excuse me, Miss Nurse. I am busy this morning.”
“Busy with your films?” Cherry boldly followed him into the barn.
He did not let her enter beyond a step or two. Nevertheless, in that instant, Cherry took a sweeping look at the barn’s shadowy contents. What was that low, square object over which Purdy had thrown his very full raincoat? It seemed to be firm in outline, propping up the raincoat in a vague oblong. Could it be an overnight case in which Purdy might have concealed the stolen money?
“Really, Miss Nurse, we can discuss the costumes some other time.”
“This afternoon?” Cherry pressed.
“No, not this afternoon!”
Purdy said it so sharply that Cherry jumped. Immediately he was all blandness.
“Yes, yes, perhaps this afternoon, if you wish. But tomorrow would be much better for me. Shall we say sometime tomorrow?”
“I’d give a lot to know,” thought Cherry, “what you’re up to this afternoon?” But aloud she said, “Tomorrow will be fine, Mr. Purdy. Thanks ever so much.” And she walked away.
“But I’ll be back this afternoon,” she vowed to herself.
Cherry returned to camp, to allow a little time to pass and to report in at the infirmary. There really was nothing for her or the Lowells to do. The three of them sat on the porch and talked about the possibility of paddling over to Tall Man’s Island that night. The nurse from Camp Thunder Cliff was willing to take charge of their infirmary for the evening. Cherry was glad to hear that Vernie Epler’s scalded ankles were healing. Dr. Lowell said he was satisfied, after treating Vernie, that the burn was under control—thanks to Cherry’s prompt action.
Cherry had an odd sense of remoteness during lunch. The girls around her chatted of the final swimming tests which Ruth J. was conducting during this next-to-last week of camp—about the circus they and Thunder Cliff would attend tomorrow—of the coming water pageant which would be the camp season’s grand finale. Sue wanted to be sixteen and a Water Queen; Katy, more modest now in her demands, said she’d just be one of the dolphins. To Cherry their lighthearted talk seemed far away, yet it reminded her that the summer, and time to help Mac, were fast running out.
Right after lunch, Cherry took an inconspicuous hilly back trail for the short walk to Purdy’s. She carried a tin pail and had ready some remarks about berrying.
Stopping behind a screen of willow trees, she surveyed his place.
No one was on Purdy’s grounds; no lights burned in Purdy’s house or barn. Was he out? Or was he locked in the darkened barn again, “developing films.”… It took courage for Cherry to go rap on the barn door and call. There was no answer, not a sound disturbed the quiet of the summer afternoon. She searched the orchard, then tried the locked house door. Not a sound here, either, except the breeze stirring in the apple trees.
“Did I scare Purdy off this morning? No, I don’t think so. Whatever he was planning, he must have decided before I got there, for he was so determined not to see me this afternoon.”
Where had he gone? Cherry walked around to the garage built at one side of the cottage. This, too, was locked. By standing on tiptoe she could see Purdy’s car inside. If he were headed for New York, or going any distance, he would have taken his car. This probably meant Purdy was somewhere not far away.
Then Cherry noticed unmistakable footprints. In the damp or muddy spots under trees, which still had not dried out after all the rains, lay the blunt imprints of Purdy’s rope-soled sandals. Cherry followed these to the highway.
Now where? Across the highway? That would lead into a deep thicket which went down to the lake.
Cherry pushed into the thicket of trees, watching the ground at every step. Yes, here were Purdy’s footprints, going toward the water. But here and there, along with the footprints, Cherry caught sight of a small, deep, square mark. She bent down. It looked like the corner of something, as if Purdy had been carrying a box and rested it at intervals.
The footprints led to the water’s edge, and then there was nothing.
Had a boat been moored here? Cherry searched in the tall grasses for a stake and rope, or a heavy rock, or wooden wedge. But she could not find a thing. She recalled hearing that Purdy cared little for fishing and rowing, and had not bothered to replace his rowboat when it got waterlogged one summer.
No boat. Then had he stepped off into the water to go swimming? Not likely, with his sandals on and carrying a heavy object. Unless—For a few minutes Cherry beat through the greenery, searching for his sandals or anything left or hidden there. But there was no trace of Purdy, no hint of his destination.
“He must have left by boat,” Cherry thought. “Did he borrow one from a neighbor? Or did someone—possibly an accomplice—come for him?”
She could not do any more here or by herself. The next step was to get help. Half running, Cherry raced back to camp, to telephone. She wanted to talk to Fred Epler, and possibly Reed, too, could help her. There was a telephone she might use with some privacy in the Main House.
Ruth J. was coming out of the Main House, a beach coat thrown over her bathing suit. She was very much annoyed.
“Someone has swiped one of our rowboats,” she told Cherry. “When we need every single boat for our water skills tests! I just reported it to Bob Wright. He thinks whoever did it probably helped himself while we were all at lunch.” Ruth J. hurried off.
“Purdy,” Cherry thought. “He could easily have taken the back hillside trail, cut through the deserted cabin area to the waterfront, and rowed a boat away to his place.” No one in the Mess Hall could have seen him on the water, because of the trees which grew luxuriantly alon
g the lake’s edge. Then he could have left the boat there while he went to get the box or whatever it was that he was carrying.
Cherry reached Fred Epler by telephone. Speaking guardedly because it was a party line, she reported what had happened. She could hear Fred Epler relaying her words to Mac and Vernie. Fred came on the telephone again.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Miss Cherry? It means he could be on his way to any one of the islands down Long Lake! There are a lot of them. He may feel that one of them would be safer than his barn, if you know what I mean.”
“I know,” Cherry said. “Fred, which island would you guess?”
“Well, the farthest one away and the most deserted is Tall Man’s Island. It’s wild, and that’s where I’d head in a pinch.”
Cherry said, “Listen, Fred. I think I can go over to Tall Man’s Island this evening … What? … No, with some of the counselors.”… Fred Epler wanted to come along. “And risk giving the whole situation away?” Cherry said. “No, just let me go and have a look.”
“Will there be some men in the party?” Fred was anxious to know.
“How brave do you think I am?” Cherry asked, laughing.
Next, Cherry called Reed at Thunder Cliff. She told him that though she could not disclose the reason by telephone, it was urgent for their picnic to take place that evening.
Good friend that he was, Reed answered, “Sure thing. We’ll go.”
CHAPTER XI
Night Watch
THE PICNICKERS STARTED OFF EARLY, AT SIX P.M., WHILE there was still plenty of daylight. A birthday party for two of the Midgets was in full swing, and Cherry thought she could slip out of camp without arousing Sue’s curiosity. But Sue had seen Cherry looking worried all day today, dashing in and out of camp.
“Now, where are you going, Miss Cherry?” Sue asked. She was holding a flower-crowned Midget by the hand, and wore a paper clown’s cap on her own head. “Something’s up. I know it is!”
“Oh, some of us are going on a picnic to Tall Man’s Island,” Cherry said. “The Lowells—” She waved toward the Lowells, to whom Sophie was handing a basket of lunch. “And Reed, Leona Jackson, Ruth J., and two Thunder Cliff counselors.”
“Huh!” Sue looked at Cherry skeptically. “Why are you going all the way to the far end of Long Lake for a picnic? It’ll be dark by the time you paddle way down there.”
“That’s why I’m in a hurry,” Cherry fibbed.
“By now—”
“But you haven’t told me—”
“I’ll tell you when I can, Sue. Honestly. Now I have to run.”
Reed and the two other young men were already waiting at the water front. They decided to take three canoes. Leona Jackson climbed in with the Lowells and the lunch. Ruth J. and the two Thunder Cliff counselors shared the second canoe. Reed and Cherry took the third, and swung out on the water as the lead boat.
The lake was glassy smooth. Once past Thunder Cliff, unbroken banks of trees lined their way. Birds flew overhead. Laughter carried from the other canoes. But Cherry was in a serious mood and Reed felt it.
“What’s bothering you, Cherry? Why did you call me and say the picnic had to be this evening?”
“Reed, so much has happened since I saw you last. I’m convinced now that Mac Cook is innocent, and I think we may find the—the man who has framed him on Tall Man’s Island.”
Reed stared. “Who is the man? Do you know him?”
“Yes, and you know him, too. It’s the photographer, Paul Purdy.”
“Purdy—of all people!” Reed paddled faster. “We’d better try to get to the island before it’s dark.”
Air and water turned sapphire blue as they skimmed along. The lake opened out, wider and lonelier. Islands began to loom up, and wild coves, where only birdcalls broke the stillness. But Cherry and Reed noticed little of this, for Cherry was telling Reed all that she had learned. After the sun set, about seven thirty, Reed asked Cherry to switch on her flashlight, as a taillight for the other two boats to follow.
Dusk was closing in when they saw the dim, solitary outlines of Tall Man’s Island. Its trees made a tall, dense, dark silhouette. Cherry thought she could see something like matches being struck on the island, or was it fireworks?
“Don’t you see that shower of sparks, Reed? Quite near the shore, up where the shore curves.”
“Might be fireflies.” He was more concerned with nosing the canoe safely through the rocks which reached out into the lake.
“It’s too big and steady to be fireflies. It’s like sparks shooting off a pinwheel or sparklers. It’s as bright as an electric flash.”
Reed looked, too. “That’s not fireworks. Not an ordinary fire, either. Ordinary sparks fly upward, and these sparks shoot down. Say, what is that?”
He called to the others to look sharp for a landing, and began himself to hunt for a spot. Tall grasses and gnarled roots clogged their way. They came to a small U-shaped inlet.
“This will do,” Reed said. “This is a natural.”
“Reed,” said Cherry, watching something else. “Those sparks—or whatever it is—they’ve stopped.”
“Do you want to explore?”
“Yes. Please. Let’s not tell the others, though.”
“Okay. Beam the flashlight on the roots.”
Reed stepped out, helped Cherry out, and pulled the canoe up on shore. The other two canoes pulled into the same inlet. “I’m starved!” Jan Lowell cried, and a babble of voices and scraping sounds disturbed the island’s quiet.
But from where the sparks had blazed came a profound silence and shadows.
“He’s heard us,” Cherry realized. “Purdy, or whoever he is.”
She and Reed told the others they’d collect firewood while the picnic lunch was being unpacked. They headed toward the spot where the sparks had flashed. Yellow sparks …
Cherry sniffed. Did she smell something like ether? She followed the faint sweetish odor, Reed close at her heels, and walked into a clearing. It was near the water’s edge, yet shielded by trees.
“Someone has been here,” Reed said. In the twilight they could make out flattened grasses where someone had trod. “Smell that?”
“But why ether?” Cherry puzzled. “Whoever he was, he must have known the sparks could be seen from the water.”
“But he didn’t expect anyone to come way out here,” Reed answered. “I’d say he stayed close to the shore because he was working with something highly combustible and might need water in a hurry.”
“Working with what?”
Cherry scanned the ground, using her flashlight, but could not see any clear prints in the grassy ground. Reed quietly told her to turn off the flashlight; it gave away their exact location. The man—or men?—might be watching them.
“I smell wood smoke, too,” Reed muttered.
They pushed their way soundlessly toward a wisp of smoke, to find themselves looking down at the remains of a fire which had been splashed, apparently with lake water, only minutes ago.
“Where is he?” Cherry whispered.
“Either hiding deeper in the island, or he’s escaped out on the water. Let’s see if we can locate his boat.”
They were several yards above the point where they themselves had landed, and around a curve. A few paces ahead, they came upon a deep, sheltered inlet. Reed knelt and picked up a length of rope.
It meant a rowboat had been here. The broken grasses were mute testimony, too. But had the boat been shoved out into the water? Or dragged and hidden among the bushes? They searched: no boat was secreted just here.
“Do you think he might have a gun?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know.” Cherry felt afraid for the first time. “What are you thinking?”
“That if we go out on the water looking for him, we’ll be an easy target to shoot at. Also, he’s had a head start. He could be waiting for us in his boat further up the shore line.”
“Or hiding right here on
the island. We’ll never find him, now that it’s growing dark,” Cherry said.
Proof, Mac Cook had said. The stolen money is the proof. If we can find it—
“Let’s not try to find him,” Cherry urged. “Let’s hunt for what he may have left behind, in his hurry.”
“And for whatever made the sparks,” Reed agreed.
It was hard to search in a shadowy forest at this hour. Reed covered the flashlight with Cherry’s scarf; this done, they permitted themselves an instant’s ray of light, here, there, ahead. The sound of singing—the picnickers’—came to them in gusts on the breeze.
“Isn’t this freshly turned earth?” Reed asked, where a giant tree barred their way.
“He might have buried the money,” Cherry thought aloud.
But neither she nor Reed, digging with their hands, could find anything. The earth might have been turned by groundhogs, they decided. They searched further, groping now. Scarcely able to see each other, Cherry and Reed linked hands to avoid getting separated. They were back again somewhere near the doused fire.
“What’s that?” Cherry said sharply. Her flashlight beam, probing among the bushes, had picked up a hand. A man’s hand. It did not stir.
She and Reed stood still in the darkness, waiting for any sound, any movement. Reed took the flashlight away from her.
“All right, come out of there!” Reed barked—so fiercely that Cherry jumped. “I’ve got you covered! Come out of there!”
It was sheer bluff. Did the man know it? He did not move or reply. Reed pulled the scarf away from the flashlight and turned the beam on full. He was taking a big chance, Cherry thought. Reed yanked her away as, simultaneously, he set the lighted flashlight on a stump. Cherry and Reed moved to one side of it.
The hand clutched at a bush. An arm appeared, and the man sat up, blinking in the beam. It was Purdy.
