… played his little scene with Mr. Sweeney to perfection! We had to spend the rest of the day waiting, and it was awful. At least Daddy could go to town and work off some of his nervous energy. I didn’t have anything to do but worry. And there was plenty to worry about, such as the police visiting the Walkers, and the fact that Bobbie never came to make his report …
Mr. Sweeney gave a discreet cough. So quietly had he made his approach that Mr. Shaw, sitting on the sack of oats, yawning with nervousness and pretending to read a newspaper, never heard him. Susan had been caught napping, too — almost literally. She was in the loft, buried under some hay. The hay tickled her neck, but it was so warm that she had allowed her eyes to close.
The Shaws both jumped. Mr. Shaw lowered his paper, and Susan put her eye to a crack in the floorboards.
“Ah there, Shaw,” Mr. Sweeney said in his smoothest tone. “Catching up with the wide world, I see.”
“Yes, I, ah, thought I’d see what was happening.” Mr. Shaw folded the paper, which happened to be two weeks old, and put it down.
“You did not pay your respects to Isabelle this morning?”
Mr. Shaw’s jaw tightened. “Are you asking me, Sweeney, or telling me?”
Mr. Sweeney smiled. “My dear fellow, I keep my eye on what concerns me.”
“All right, then, I did not visit Mrs. Walker this morning. Mrs. Walker believes that I am in town consulting with various gentlemen about the most profitable ways of investing the money she entrusted to me.”
“How droll! Well, of course, now you can assure her that her fortune is in the best possible hands. Ah, ah, ah! — philosophy, my dear Shaw!”
Mr. Shaw glared and muttered something under his breath.
“Where is your gifted daughter?”
“Playing with the Walker children. Why?”
“Oh, I just found it curious that I didn’t see her going there.”
Mr. Shaw shrugged. “The children have their own ways of going and coming. Susan, as a matter of fact, has been to the Walkers’ for more amateur theatricals, and has been in touch with me since. The results have been gratifying.”
He pulled from his pocket and held out for inspection two lumps of beeswax which he had obtained from Mrs. Hollister. Impressed in them was the outline of a little key that he had found in a bowl of buttons, pins and other oddments on the chest of drawers in his room.
Mr. Sweeney shook his head in admiration. “That girl is — an — Artist!” he declared.
“Yes. I’ll just stroll into town this afternoon and have a key made from this. Susan will find the key with her nightgown and robe and toothbrush when she comes to fetch them later in the day. You see, she’s managed to secure an invitation to spend the night at the Walkers’.”
“Ah!” Mr. Sweeney breathed.
“So the rest of the operation should be absurdly simple. Why don’t you meet me here at midnight? We can proceed to the Walkers’ house, and enter through the kitchen door — Susan will make sure it’s unlocked for us. She will meet us inside, where she will hand over to us a cloth bag — a heavily-laden cloth bag.” Mr. Shaw leered at this point so realistically that Susan could hardly suppress a giggle. “She will return to bed, while you and I go somewhere to divide the, ah, take. After that, I sincerely hope to say goodbye to you forever.”
Mr. Sweeney rubbed his hands. “An excellent plan, Shaw. However, certain amendments will be necessary. For one thing, you and I will not by any means say farewell after our division of the spoils.”
“Why not, for heaven’s sake?”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome, Shaw! I assure you it’s not because I enjoy your company any more than you enjoy mine. But I know enough to watch out for my own interests. Why should I assume, as you obviously wish me to, that the bag is going to have the whole take in it? I know that Susan is cool enough to walk out of the Walkers’ house tomorrow morning — right under Isabelle’s nose, too! — with her overnight case bulging with booty that she somehow ‘forgot’ to put in the cloth bag. Obviously I can’t say any farewells until she has reported back to you in my presence.”
“You intend to search my daughter’s effects, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Damn you for a scoundrel!” Mr. Shaw roared, stamping his foot.
‘Well done, Daddy!’ Susan thought. ‘You’re playing this scene like a real pro!’
“Philosophy!” Mr. Sweeney laughed. “My concern is only to remove temptations from your path, Shaw! Now, I must insist on another change. We will meet in the Walkers’ stable, not here.”
“All right — but may I ask why?”
Mr. Sweeney looked at Mr. Shaw with unfeigned puzzlement. “Why? Shaw, sometimes you baffle me. The reason is, of course, that tonight there will be a horse in this stable, whose noise might betray our presence, whereas the Walkers’ stable will be empty.”
“Oh. Yes …” Mr. Shaw rubbed his face, and continued with a sigh, “I keep forgetting these little details.”
Mr. Sweeney gave a superior smile. “Shaw, in this game there is nothing but detail. Now, one more amendment, and I’ll have done. We will meet in the Walkers’ stable at sundown, not at midnight. I want to keep my eye on you, frankly. There are just too many hours of darkness before midnight, during which you and Susan could — oh, succumb to temptation, shall we say? Sundown, then?”
Mr. Shaw pretended reluctance, but finally growled, “All right.”
“Excellent. Just bear in mind that you have everything to lose if you cross me in the least particular. Have you anything more to say to me?”
“Nothing that you’d want to hear, Sweeney.”
“Philosophy, Shaw! Next to a scrupulous attention to detail, that is the greatest asset we have in our profession. Good day, then — until sundown!”
Mr. Shaw strode to the door and watched him angle across the pasture. “Come on down, chick!” he said quietly. She scrambled out from under the hay, and half climbed, half slid down the ladder from the loft. “Hold it, hold it,” he muttered. “Not yet … All right, he’s over the ridge. Run!”
They dashed for the Hollisters’ back door.
“Our fish,” he said when they were inside, “seems to have swallowed the bait.”
“Daddy, you were marvelous!”
She got the giggles as they went upstairs. As soon as they were in his room she declaimed, “Are you going to search my daughter’s effects, sir?” and fell into a chair, helpless with laughter.
Mr. Shaw grinned. “It did go off pretty well, didn’t it? All except that part about forgetting Hollister’s horse. Well, that’s all right — the more superior he feels, the more relaxed he’ll be. The unctuous creep! Well, it’s Bobbie’s show now. All we can do is wait.”
“I hate waiting.”
“Don’t blame you. Oh! I guess I have to keep up the masquerade and go to town to have a key made. It’ll be a nice walk, anyway.”
“I can’t go for a walk or anything, can I?”
“No! You sit tight — Weaselface might be watching.”
She groaned.
In a little while he left. She brought her diary up to date, putting in plenty of detail in order to pass the time.
The afternoon grew hotter as it wore on. She paced her room. She threw herself on the bed and tried to nap. She picked up a copy of Harper’s Bazar (‘Is that the way it’s spelled?’ she wondered), and leafed through it. “Paris Fashions,” she read. “[From our own correspondent] It may be affirmed that the article most worn in Paris is fur. This fashion is imposed by the severe winter which we are undergoing …” Winter? She turned to the cover and looked at the date: February 7, 1880. Oh, foo! She dropped the magazine and began pacing again.
Mrs. Hollister scuffled and made mousey housekeeping sounds below. Flies buzzed against the window …
Mr. Shaw came back at four o’clock.
“Hello, chick! How’re you doing? Did Bobbie show up yet?”
“No. Oh, what a beautiful hat!”
He sat down with a sigh by the front window, and they had the waiting fidgets together.
At five after five Mr. Shaw gave a start and said, “Oh oh! There’s Maggie out in the road. She’s got a bonnet on. Walking fast. Looks like she’s going to town. Maybe they gave her the evening off.”
“Or else she’s been fired by Cousin Jane,” Susan groaned.
There was another hour of waiting and fidgets, and muttering by Mr. Shaw over Robert’s failure to report. They heard the sound of hooves and wheels on the road.
“Here comes Uncle Sam Windbag,” Mr. Shaw sighed. He glanced out the window. “Oh oh! No it isn’t. It’s — a policeman, by George! Badge on his hat, anyway. With Maggie. I wonder what … Oh — good — night! Sweeney’s done it!”
Susan’s heart constricted. “You mean he —?”
“He must have caught Bobbie trailing him, and suspected we were behind it, and so he’s told the police. — There they go, into the Walkers’. Oh, the dirty dog! There goes our fortune …”
“Wait, Daddy! — Maggie went out a while ago, and now she’s come back with a policeman. It looks like the Walkers sent her to get one. Mr. Sweeney might not have anything to do with it!”
“Oh, lord!” he groaned. “I guess I’ll have to go find out for sure.”
When at last the policeman could be seen coming out of the Walkers’ house and climbing into his buggy, Mr. Shaw ran out to intercept him. Susan peeked through the curtains and watched with a pounding heart. The policeman — he wore a derby! — pointed over his shoulder with his thumb at the Walkers’ house. Mr. Shaw nodded. The policeman leaned forward. Mr. Shaw shook his head. They exchanged a few more words; then each raised a hand in farewell, and the buggy moved off down the road. Mr. Shaw came hurrying back to the house. He had no sooner gotten inside when Mr. Hollister’s buggy appeared.
“Almost got caught by Uncle Sam!” he panted, bursting into the room and banging the door shut. “Phew! Narrow escape from a fate worse than death! Well, the fuss over at the Walkers’ is that they think Bobbie’s run away! That’s Cousin Jane’s conclusion, anyway. The policeman thinks she’s called him into it just to create the maximum pain for everybody. He’s probably right. He had a few words to say about her that express my sentiments exactly.”
“Where do you think Bobbie is? — still trailing Mr. Sweeney?”
“He must be …” Mr. Shaw rubbed his chin for a minute. “You know, what’s probably happening is that Sweeney is over there somewhere spying on us, and Bobbie is over there somewhere spying on him, and — oh, good night! You know what that means? It means Sweeney probably saw me out there talking to that cop!” He slapped his forehead. “What’s he going to conclude from that? It might just make him nervous enough to run!”
Susan didn’t know what to say. She chewed her knuckle and resumed her pacing. Their dinner came up a short time later — Mr. Shaw was “indisposed” again — but they had little appetite for it. Mr. Hollister brayed below. Mrs. Hollister murmured. A group of birds had hysterics outside, presumably over Toby. The light turned golden, and then ruddy. The Shaws waited.
Robert did not come to make his report.
And then at last it was sundown. Mr. Hollister was delivering a monologue to his wife out on the veranda; his nasal bray went on and on without interruption, like a waterfall. Mr. Shaw stood up with a great sigh.
“All right, chick — it’s time for me to go. If Sweeney doesn’t show up soon, it means he’s gone for good — with our fortune. In that case, I’ll be back within an hour. If he does show up, we’ll go through with everything as planned. I guess you and I can bring it off by ourselves, can’t we? Just be sure to take a loaded pillowcase and a newspaper with you. Here, take my watch, too. If I don’t come back, go to the Walkers’ about eleven. Use the front door — the back door can be seen from the stable. Are you all straight now on what you’re going to do over there?”
“Yes.” An anxiety that had been building up in her for hours finally burst forth. “Daddy, what if something has happened to Bobbie?”
“Oh, hon, he probably just forgot that he was supposed to come make a report.”
“But what if something has happened to him?”
“We’ll go looking for him as soon as we’re free. All right?”
She had to be satisfied with that.
He hugged her. “Goodbye, chick. Slow and easy, now. It’s all going to turn out fine.”
She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. They blew a kiss at each other, and Mr. Shaw slipped out, leaving her to wait alone.
18. Mr. Hollister Defends the Widow’s Hearth
… awful night! About the only thing that went right was that I got out of the house safely. I was worried sick about Bobbie. I waited in the back yard and then in the hedge until after eleven and went to the Walkers’. Everything began to get out of control …
Mr. Shaw did not return. Mr. Sweeney must still be in the picture, then, and the plan would proceed.
It was a warm night with a nearly full moon alternately shining and hiding behind clouds. From the veranda came the creak of rocking chairs and Mr. Hollister’s everlasting bray. She glanced at the watch again: only a few minutes until ten. ‘They’re never going to turn in!’ she thought, chewing her knuckle. But it suddenly came to her that she didn’t have to wait until the Hollisters were safely snoring in bed — she could go now. She could walk out the back door and sit under a bush or something until it was time to go to the Walkers’.
It was done in a minute. She slipped the watch into her pocket, blew out the candle, and crept out of the house. She carried a rolled-up copy of Harper’s Bazar to jam the elevator door, and a pillowcase weighted with all the small heavy objects she could find.
The hedge would be the best place to wait, but she couldn’t get to that part with the hole in it without the risk of being seen by the Hollisters. She decided to wait in the back yard for the time being, and made herself comfortable under a small tree.
As comfortable as she could, that is, considering her state of mind. What had happened to Bobbie? Could he have just forgotten about coming to report to them? That didn’t sound like Corporal Robert Lincoln Walker. Was he injured or stuck somewhere out in the fields or woods? Her heart failed her.
Some time later Mr. Hollister’s voice ceased braying and turned into a huge yawn. Mrs. Hollister’s voice murmured something. “N-yas, n-yas,” Mr. Hollister trumpeted. There was a sound of footsteps on loose floorboards, and protesting door-hinges.
Susan jumped up and slipped across the yard to the hedge. A light went out on the third floor of the Walkers’ house. ‘Well, there’s one of them down, anyway,’ she thought. She peered at the greenish glow of the watch hands: ten-thirty-five. “Go to bed, please!” she hissed at the house. There was still a faint glow of light in the downstairs windows …
She waited.
The glow vanished from the downstairs windows and reappeared in two of the upstairs windows in the back of the house.
She waited.
Ah! There went the upstairs light. She looked at the time: ten to eleven. She would wait until a quarter after.
She waited for twenty-five minutes, and then for a few more to allow the moon to go behind a cloud.
Now she could go! She scurried across the yard to the front porch, slipped off her shoes, and padded up to the door.
It was locked.
‘Oh, good grief!’ she thought wearily. Robert was supposed to have taken care of the doors. If they were still locked, it meant that he — oh, she couldn’t worry about that now! She crept down the steps and put her shoes back on. She’d have to try the kitchen door. And if it was locked —? Well, check f
irst and ask questions later …
But no — she couldn’t try the back door. Her father had told her not to, because it was visible from the stable …
Windows, then — how about windows? Back on the porch she went, and crept up to the window closest to the door.
What was that?
She froze and listened. Out on the road there was the faint rhythmic sound of hooves and wheels. Her instinct was to slip away from the porch and hide. But no — the road was far from the house, the porch was in shadow — no one would notice her. She turned back to the window and pushed up on its unyielding frame.
The hooves clopped, the iron-rimmed wheels crunched on the gravel, past the Hollisters’, past the hedge, past the — no, not past the Walkers’. The sounds stopped at the front gate. The horse gave a flubbery snort and shook its harness. There were voices. There were lights. “Oh, no!” Susan gasped. Dark figures with bull’s-eye lanterns were coming up the walk.
She scurried to the end of the porch, threw her leg over the railing, and slid down into the hydrangeas.
A rumbling voice said, “All right, young-feller-me-lad, now we’ll see.”
“Why’ncha lea’me alone?” a boy’s voice whined. “I never been here in my life.”
“Dunno, Frank,” another man’s voice said. “I don’t think he’s the one. Lady distinctly told me brown hair. This kid—”
“She wants a runaway,” Frank rumbled, “and we got a runaway. Up to her to say if he’s the one or not.”
“I ain’t no runaway. I was just goin’ to visit my Cousin Florrie. Lea’me alone.”
Boots clomped up the steps and across the porch. Circles of light darted about. There was a thunderous knocking at the door.
“She a reg’lar fierce ’un, Frank. I wish you’d—”
“Dooty is dooty,” Frank rumbled. “She reported a runaway, and we—”
The house echoed to a renewed application of the knocker. Then came the sound of the bolt being hurled back, and the door opened with a crash.
“What is the meaning of this?” Cousin Jane snapped.
“Police, ma’am. We—”
All in Good Time Page 13
