The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  But that was nothing. He had all the evening before him, and reentering the store, he took up his stand near the sugar barrel. He had perceived that in the pauses of weighing and tasting, Dick talked; if he were guided with suitable discretion, why should he not talk of Wellgood?

  He was guided, and he did talk and to some effect. That is, he gave information of the man which surprised Sweetwater. If in the past and in New York he had been known as a waiter, or should I say steward, he was known here as a manufacturer of patent medicine designed to rejuvenate the human race. He had not been long in town and was somewhat of a stranger yet, but he wouldn’t be so long. He was going to make things hum, he was. Money for this, money for that, a horse where another man would walk, and mail—well, that alone would make this post-office worth while. Then the drugs ordered by wholesale. Those boxes over there were his, ready to be carted out to his manufactory. Count them, someone, and think of the bottles and bottles of stuff they stand for. If it sells as he says it will—then he will soon be rich: and so on, till Sweetwater brought the garrulous Dick to a standstill by asking whether Wellgood had been away for any purpose since he first came to town. He received the reply that he had just come home from New York, where he had been for some articles needed in his manufactory. Sweetwater felt all his convictions confirmed, and ended the colloquy with the final question:

  “And where is his manufactory? Might be worth visiting, perhaps.”

  The other made a gesture, said something about northwest and rushed to help a customer. Sweetwater took the opportunity to slide away. More explicit directions could easily be got elsewhere, and he felt anxious to return to Mr. Grey and discover, if possible, whether it would prove as much a matter of surprise to him as to Sweetwater himself that the man who answered to the name of Wellgood was the owner of a manufactory and a barrel or two of drugs, out of which he proposed to make a compound that would rob the doctors of their business and make himself and this little village rich.

  Sweetwater made only one stop on his way to Mr. Grey’s hotel rooms, and that was at the stables. Here he learned whatever else there was to know, and, armed with definite information, he appeared before Mr. Grey, who, to his astonishment, was dining in his own room.

  He had dismissed the waiter and was rather brooding than eating. He looked up eagerly, however, when Sweetwater entered, and asked what news.

  The detective, with some semblance of respect, answered that he had seen Wellgood, but that he had been unable to detain him or bring him within his employer’s observation.

  “He is a patent-medicine man,” he then explained, “and manufactures his own concoctions in a house he has rented here on a lonely road some half-mile out of town.”

  “Wellgood does? the man named Wellgood?” Mr. Grey exclaimed with all the astonishment the other secretly expected.

  “Yes; Wellgood, James Wellgood. There is no other in town.”

  “How long has this man been here?” the statesman inquired, after a moment of apparently great discomfiture.

  “Just twenty-four hours, this time. He was here once before, when he rented the house and made all his plans.”

  “Ah!”

  Mr. Grey rose precipitately. His manner had changed.

  “I must see him. What you tell me makes it all the more necessary for me to see him. How can you bring it about?”

  “Without his seeing you?” Sweetwater asked.

  “Yes, yes; certainly without his seeing me. Couldn’t you rap him up at his own door, and hold him in talk a minute, while I looked on from the carriage or whatever vehicle we can get to carry us there? The least glimpse of his face would satisfy me. That is, tonight.”

  “I’ll try,” said Sweetwater, not very sanguine as to the probable result of this effort.

  Returning to the stables, he ordered the team. With the last ray of the sun they set out, the reins in Sweetwater’s hands.

  They headed for the coast-road.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE CLOSED DOOR

  The road was once the highway, but the tide having played so many tricks with its numberless bridges a new one had been built farther up the cliff, carrying with it the life and business of the small town. Many old landmarks still remained—shops, warehouses and even a few scattered dwellings. But most of these were deserted, and those that were still in use showed such neglect that it was very evident the whole region would soon be given up to the encroaching sea and such interests as are inseparable from it.

  The hour was that mysterious one of late twilight, when outlines lose their distinctness and sea and shore melt into one mass of uniform gray. There was no wind and the waves came in with a soft plash, but so near to the level of the road that it was evident, even to these strangers, that the tide was at its height and would presently begin to ebb.

  Soon they had passed the last forsaken dwelling, and the town proper lay behind them. Sand and a few rocks were all that lay between them now and the open stretch of the ocean, which, at this point, approached the land in a small bay, well-guarded on either side by embracing rocky heads. This was what made the harbor at C—.

  It was very still. They passed one team and only one. Sweetwater looked very sharply at this team and at its driver, but saw nothing to arouse suspicion. They were now a half-mile from C—, and, seemingly, in a perfectly desolate region.

  “A manufactory here!” exclaimed Mr. Grey. It was the first word he had uttered since starting.

  “Not far from here,” was Sweetwater’s equally laconic reply; and, the road taking a turn almost at the moment of his speaking, he leaned forward and pointed out a building standing on the right-hand side of the road, with its feet in the water. “That’s it.” said he. “They described it well enough for me to know it when I see it. Looks like a robber’s hole at this time of night,” he laughed; “but what can you expect from a manufactory of patent medicine?”

  Mr. Grey was silent. He was looking very earnestly at the building.

  “It is larger than I expected,” he remarked at last.

  Sweetwater himself was surprised, but as they advanced and their point of view changed they found it to be really an insignificant structure, and Mr. Wellgood’s portion of it more insignificant still.

  In reality it was a collection of three stores under one roof: two of them were shut up and evidently unoccupied, the third showed a lighted window. This was the manufactory. It occupied the middle place and presented a tolerably decent appearance. It showed, besides the lighted lamp I have mentioned, such signs of life as a few packing-boxes tumbled out on the small platform in front, and a whinnying horse attached to an empty buggy, tied to a post on the opposite side of the road.

  “I’m glad to see the lamp,” muttered Sweetwater. “Now, what shall we do? Is it light enough for you to see his face, if I can manage to bring him to the door?”

  Mr. Grey seemed startled.

  “It’s darker than I thought,” said he. “But call the man and if I can not see him plainly, I’ll shout to the horse to stand, which you will take as a signal to bring this Wellgood nearer. But do not be surprised if I ride off before he reaches the buggy. I’ll come back again and take you up farther down the road.”

  “All right, sir,” answered Sweetwater, with a side glance at the speaker’s inscrutable features. “It’s a go!” And leaping to the ground he advanced to the manufactory door and knocked loudly.

  No one appeared.

  He tried the latch; it lifted, but the door did not open; it was fastened from within.

  “Strange!” he muttered, casting a glance at the waiting horse and buggy, then at the lighted window, which was on the second floor directly over his head. “Guess I’ll sing out.”

  Here he shouted the man’s name. “Wellgood! I say, Wellgood!”

  No response to this either.

  “Looks bad!” he acknowledged to himself; and, taking a step back, he looked up at the window.

  It was closed, but there was ne
ither shade nor curtain to obstruct the view.

  “Do you see anything?” he inquired of Mr. Grey, who sat with his eye at the small window in the buggy top.

  “Nothing.”

  “No movement in the room above? No shadow at the window?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, it’s confounded strange!” And he went back, still calling Wellgood.

  The tied-up horse whinnied, and the waves gave a soft splash and that was all—if I except Sweetwater’s muttered oath.

  Coming back, he looked again at the window, then, with a gesture toward Mr. Grey, turned the corner of the building and began to edge himself along its side in an endeavor to reach the rear and see what it offered. But he came to a sudden standstill. He found himself on the edge of the bank before he had taken twenty steps. Yet the building projected on, and he saw why it had looked so large from a certain point of the approach. Its rear was built out on piles, making its depth even greater than the united width of the three stores. At low tide this might be accessible from below, but just now the water was almost on a level with the top of the piles, making all approach impossible save by boat.

  Disgusted with his failure, Sweetwater returned to the front, and, finding the situation unchanged, took a new resolve. After measuring with his eye the height of the first story, he coolly walked over to the strange horse, and, slipping his bridle, brought it back and cast it over a projection of the door; by its aid he succeeded in climbing up to the window, which was the sole eye to the interior.

  Mr. Grey sat far back in his buggy, watching every movement.

  There were no shades at the window, as I have before said, and, once Sweetwater’s eye had reached the level of the sill, he could see the interior without the least difficulty. There was nobody there. The lamp burned on a great table littered with papers, but the rude cane-chair before it was empty, and so was the room. He could see into every corner of it and there was not even a hiding-place where anybody could remain concealed. Sweetwater was still looking, when the lamp, which had been burning with considerable smoke, flared up and went out. Sweetwater uttered an ejaculation, and, finding himself face to face with utter darkness, slid from his perch to the ground.

  Approaching Mr. Grey for the second time, he said:

  “I can not understand it. The fellow is either lying low, or he’s gone out, leaving his lamp to go out, too. But whose is the horse—just excuse me while I tie him up again. It looks like the one he was driving today. It is the one. Well, he won’t leave him here all night. Shall we lie low and wait for him to come and unhitch this animal? Or do you prefer to return to the hotel?”

  Mr. Grey was slow in answering. Finally he said:

  “The man may suspect our intention. You can never tell anything about such fellows as he. He may have caught some unexpected glimpse of me or simply heard that I was in town. If he’s the man I think him, he has reasons for avoiding me which I can very well understand. Let us go back—not to the hotel, I must see this adventure through tonight—but far enough for him to think we have given up all idea of routing him out tonight. Perhaps that is all he is waiting for. You can steal back—”

  “Excuse me,” said Sweetwater, “but I know a better dodge than that. We’ll circumvent him. We passed a boat-house on our way down here. I’ll just drive you up, procure a boat, and bring you back here by water. I don’t believe that he will expect that, and if he is in the house we shall see him or his light.”

  “Meanwhile he can escape by the road.”

  “Escape? Do you think he is planning to escape?”

  The detective spoke with becoming surprise and Mr. Grey answered without apparent suspicion.

  “It is possible if he suspects my presence in the neighborhood.”

  “Do you want to stop him?”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Oh, I remember. Well, sir, we will drive on—that is, after a moment.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, nothing. You said you wanted to see the man before he escaped.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And that he might escape by the road.”

  “Yes—”

  “Well, I was just making that a little bit impracticable. A small pebble in the keyhole and—why, see now, his horse is walking off! Gee! I must have fastened him badly. I shouldn’t wonder if he trotted all the way to town. But it can’t be helped. I can not be supposed to race after him. Are you ready now, sir? I’ll give another shout, then I’ll get in.” And once more the lonely region about echoed with the cry: “Wellgood! I say, Wellgood!”

  There was no answer, and the young detective, masking for the nonce as Mr. Grey’s confidential servant, jumped into the buggy, and turned the horse’s head toward C—.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE FACE

  The moon was well up when the small boat in which our young detective was seated with Mr. Grey appeared in the bay approaching the so-called manufactory of Wellgood. The looked-for light on the waterside was not there. All was dark except where the windows reflected the light of the moon.

  This was a decided disappointment to Sweetwater, if not to Mr. Grey. He had expected to detect signs of life in this quarter, and this additional proof of Wellgood’s absence from home made it look as if they had come out on a fool’s errand and might much better have stuck to the road.

  “No promise there,” came in a mutter from his lips. “Shall I row in, sir, and try to make a landing?”

  “You may row nearer. I should like a closer view. I don’t think we shall attract any attention. There are more boats than ours on the water.”

  Sweetwater was startled. Looking round, he saw a launch, or some such small steamer, riding at anchor not far from the mouth of the bay. But that was not all. Between it and them was a rowboat like their own, resting quietly in the wake of the moon.

  “I don’t like so much company,” he muttered. “Something’s brewing; something in which we may not want to take a part.”

  “Very likely,” answered Mr. Grey grimly. “But we must not be deterred—not till I have seen—” the rest Sweetwater did not hear. Mr. Grey seemed to remember himself. “Row nearer,” he now bade. “Get under the shadow of the rocks if you can. If the boat is for him, he will show himself. Yet I hardly see how he can board from that bank.”

  It did not look feasible. Nevertheless, they waited and watched with much patience for several long minutes. The boat behind them did not advance, nor was any movement discernible in the direction of the manufactory. Another short period, then suddenly a light flashed from a window high up in the central gable, sparkled for an instant and was gone. Sweetwater took it for a signal and, with a slight motion of the wrist, began to work his way in toward shore till they lay almost at the edge of the piles.

  “Hark!”

  It was Sweetwater who spoke.

  Both listened, Mr. Grey with his head turned toward the launch and Sweetwater with his eye on the cavernous space, sharply outlined by the piles, which the falling tide now disclosed under each contiguous building. Goods had been directly shipped from these stores in the old days. This he had learned in the village. How shipped he had not been able to understand from his previous survey of the building. But he thought he could see now. At low tide, or better, at half-tide, access could be got to the floor of the extension and, if this floor held a trap, the mystery would be explainable. So would be the hovering boat—the signal-light and—yes! this sound overheard of steps on a rattling planking.

  “I hear nothing,” whispered Mr. Grey from the other end. “The boat is still there, but not a man has dipped an oar.”

  “They will soon,” returned Sweetwater as a smothered sound of clanking iron reached his ears from the hollow spaces before him. “Duck your head, sir; I’m going to row in under this portion of the house.”

  Mr. Grey would have protested and with very good reason. There was scarcely a space of three feet between them and the boards overhe
ad. But Sweetwater had so immediately suited action to word that he had no choice.

  They were now in utter darkness, and Mr. Grey’s thoughts must have been peculiar as he crouched over the stern, hardly knowing what to expect or whether this sudden launch into darkness was for the purpose of flight or pursuit. But enlightenment came soon. The sound of a man’s tread in the building above was every moment becoming more perceptible, and while wondering, possibly, at his position, Mr. Grey naturally turned his head as nearly as he could in the direction of these sounds, and was staring with blank eyes into the darkness, when Sweetwater, leaning toward him, whispered:

  “Look up! There’s a trap. In a minute he’ll open it. Mark him, but don’t breathe a word, and I’ll get you out of this all right.”

  Mr. Grey attempted some answer, but it was lost in the prolonged creak of slowly-moving hinges somewhere over their heads. Spaces, which had looked dark, suddenly looked darker; hearing was satisfied, but not the eye. A man’s breath panting with exertion testified to a near-by presence; but that man was working without a light in a room with shuttered windows, and Mr. Grey probably felt that he knew very little more than before, when suddenly, most unexpectedly, to him at least, a face started out of that overhead darkness; a face so white, with every feature made so startlingly distinct by the strong light Sweetwater had thrown upon it, that it seemed the only thing in the world to the two men beneath. In another moment it had vanished, or rather the light which had revealed it.