After sending his regards to Mr. Dobson, he turned Ted over to the assistant who quickly produced the required files. As he studied the story, now two years old, Ted saw that his earlier expectations were right. In cold newspaper type, the story did not appear particularly sensational, nor was the photograph, probably secured under deadline pressure, as sharp as it might have been. Although the assistant did not know for sure, he expressed doubts that either Mr. Fontaine’s name or the picture had gone out over the wire. Then the story became hardly more than a little filler, which a few papers might use but most would overlook.
“It’s a little deflating, isn’t it,” the young man remarked, “to realize that something so important to you has such a little effect on the world?”
Ted also wanted to look up the newspaper story about the Franton fire, and found that it occurred within two weeks of the other story. Other than that, the small community of Hopalong seemed to get little publicity in the Monroe paper, though Ted searched back and forth through several months. It seemed that he had about exhausted the newspaper as a source of clues.
After thanking the editor and his assistant, he left the office. His way back took him in the general direction of Hopalong, but not straight to it. He had decided to stop off at the mission house where apparently José had received most of his help. He was not quite ready yet to dismiss José as the passenger on the plane, nor did he know yet just how much José could do and understand. Those prints found near the back meadow had aroused his interest. Bob and his father thought that José was not the passenger on the plane, but that he was the person standing by the meadow. Yet the general similarity of the prints suggested that they could have been made by the same person. If he could eliminate José as the passenger, he might also be able to eliminate him as the man at the meadow. This could mean . . . that the missing passenger was still hanging around.
Explaining his errand at the mission house, he was introduced to Father Warren, and shown into a quiet study.
“Although I’m a newspaperman, Father Warren, this isn’t a newspaper story. I’m genuinely interested in helping my friends, the Fontaines, and in a way concerned, as I am sure you are, that José does not get involved in something more serious than he realizes. Yet it is hard for outsiders to judge just how much he does realize. I have heard some talk that he is exaggerating his defects, if not actually shamming.”
“Exaggerating, Ted? I don’t think that is quite the right word. He can hear a little, he can read a little, he can make a few sounds that a patient listener could interpret as words. But because he knows his abilities are limited, he distrusts them, and prefers not to use them. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to play on a baseball team where all the other players were much better players than you, now would you?”
“No, I guess not, Father,” Ted agreed. “But people believe that José will help himself to little things without asking, and I’m hoping that it hasn’t gone beyond that.”
“I’ve known José a great many years,” said the priest warmly, “and I have great faith that he would not do anything he thought was very wrong. Stealing? I’m afraid that’s true, but let’s try to look at it as José sees it. We at the mission would do anything we could to help him, but he doesn’t often ask, and we have found it a wise policy not to try to help a man more than he wants to be helped. He picks up jobs here and there, and I’m sure no one in the community would let him become destitute. It is perhaps that very feeling of charity which leads him to believe this really isn’t stealing. He takes only small things, things which he needs and believes would hardly be missed, and would be given to him freely if he asked.
“But think how difficult it is for him to ask! It’s not merely that it puts him in a begging position, but it also exposes his infirmities to public view. Have we a right to expect that of him?
“But I must agree that José is not wise in the ways of the world, and that he might be led to do something wicked by a stronger-minded person who assured him that there was nothing wrong about it. That is why I am interested to know just what it is that you suspect him of.”
Father Warren sat back and folded his hands. Then Ted told him about the clue of the misshapen shoes, and how they related to the airplane crash and the footprints found at the meadow.
“Do you want my assurance, Ted, that José was not the passenger on that plane?” Ted nodded, and Father Warren went on: “Then I give it to you gladly and whole-heartedly. This is no longer a question of my faith in José, but what I know of his personality. He would never voluntarily ride in an airplane. He doesn’t understand what keeps an airplane up, therefore he would be suspicious of it, and would reject all attempts to take him up. He would not care for the human relationship involved, with the pilot and others, and operating the photographic equipment you speak of would lie completely outside his competence.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Ted, rising to his feet. “I accept your judgment. I’m sure now that José wasn’t on the plane. And either the man at the meadow was not José at all, or if it was, he was engaged in some activity which he considers harmless.”
But José was not the man at the meadow, of that Ted was sure. It was the missing passenger, and whether he was merely in hiding or had some more sinister purpose in mind remained to be seen.
Ted’s way home took him through Hopalong, and he found it was just about time for the train to arrive. There was a certain bustle and friendliness about the train’s arrival that was beginning to tickle his fancy.
“Come along and have some fun,” a man called to him as he parked the car. “Jake Pastor’s going to get his package today.”
The train pulled in, and Jake inquired of the station master about his package as usual while the group of spectators inched closer.
“Why, yes, Jake, there is a package for you. Just wait here and I’ll get it.”
No one could have looked more surprised than Jake did, but he waited expectantly for the package to be produced.
“Come on, fellows,” someone called, “Jake’s got his package. Let’s see what it is.”
The station master returned, and had Jake sign a slip before handing him the small bundle. Jake tucked the package under his arm and made as though he was about to leave.
“Well, fellows, guess I’ll have to be hurrying along. Mighty important package, and I’ve got to get it home before anything happens to it.”
“Oh, come on, Jake,” someone coaxed, “open it and let’s see what it is.”
“Sure, Jake, you’ve got to let us see it. It must be pretty valuable, you’ve been inquiring about it for so long.”
It was obvious that Jake was nearly dying with curiosity himself, so he allowed himself to be persuaded, and began to tear off the wrappings. Finally he lifted out an old-fashioned automobile horn from the heavy layers of tissue paper!
“What are you going to do with that, Jake? You don’t own a car.”
Jake was surprised but ready to carry it off. “Why, sure, it’s just what I’ve needed. I’m going to attach it to my saddle, and make you fellows pull over to the side when I want to pass you up.”
There was a good deal of kidding but gradually the group broke up. Then Jake spotted Ted, and called to him.
“Hi, there, what’s-your-name, did that friend of yours find out what he wanted?”
“Which friend of mine?” asked Ted.
“That new man you’ve got out at the farm. I had a long talk with him this noon. He asked me all sorts of questions about early settlers and names of places and things like that. I figured he was either a nut or a writing fellow, and they’re almost the same thing. Don’t know what he was after, but I’ve been wondering ever since if he got it.”
If Henry Cox wanted any local gossip, Jake Pastor was the right man to go to, Ted thought. Cox seemed to have an insatiable curiosity, though just what line it was taking Ted was at a loss to guess. But just then he was less interested in Cox’s conversation with Jake than he was in
the whereabouts of the man himself.
“Do you know where Cox went afterward?”
“Tried to get a ride, I guess, but I didn’t see him after that.”
Ted proceeded on toward home. He was about a mile from the farm when he noticed a figure up ahead, motioning with a thumb. As he came closer, he saw that the tired and dust-covered traveler was Henry Cox. He drew up beside him.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Back to the farm. I work there . . . I guess.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about it. Mr. Fontaine seemed pretty put out with you when I left.”
“Can’t say that I blame him,” said Cox cheerfully, getting into the car, “but he can’t do anything more than kick me out.”
“Well, be prepared. He knows about your taking all those pictures of Tony, and your pumping her for information about the hermit, and he’s wondering about a few other things besides. But mostly I don’t think he has much patience with a man who accepts his pay but neglects his work.”
“You mean I’ve got to have a story ready that will answer all those things?”
“Why a story? Why don’t you try the truth and see how it sounds?”
“Oh, I’m a firm believer in truth, Ted,” said Cox with a laugh. “But the truth is such a big thing that everybody has to choose which parts of it he wants to tell.”
They drove into the farmyard, and Mr. Fontaine happened to see Cox getting out of the car. He came over toward them. He was not a hasty man, nor did he believe in condemning a man unheard.
“I’m reporting back for work,” Cox announced, “if I still have a job.”
“That all depends. Where were you today?”
“In Hopalong. I had some pressing personal business, thought I could take care of it quickly, but it took me a great deal longer than I planned. Then I expected I could rent a car to bring me back, but nobody in Hopalong ever heard of such a thing, and when I tried to pick up a ride I found that nobody was leaving until that blinkin’ train came in. So I decided to walk, until Ted picked me up about a mile down the road.”
“I understand you had quite a conversation with Jake Pastor,” said Ted.
“That was between telephone calls. I had to wait for an answer, and that was what took me so long.”
“What did you do with those pictures you took of my daughter?” asked Mr. Fontaine.
“I mailed them away to be developed, as long as I was in town.”
“Did you intend them for publication?”
“It might come to that eventually, but I would never do such a thing without your permission.” He looked down at his fashionable, dust-covered shoes, then up directly into Mr. Fontaine’s eyes. “Am I still working for you?”
Mr. Fontaine studied the man carefully.
“A few more questions first. Did you secretly milk one of my cows the other morning?”
“No, I did not.” Cox’s gaze was direct and unwavering.
“Do you know who did?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who made those footprints up by the wrecked airplane?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who that hermit in the woods is?”
“No, sir, nor am I much interested. As far as I know these woods could be filled with queer prospectors.”
“Did you lose a paper with some queer lettering on it?”
“Yes, I did.” Cox’s face lit up. “I’d like to have it back, if I may. It’s of little value to me, but I would prefer not to have it floating around.”
“Can you tell us what the paper was for?” Ted questioned.
Cox looked at him, then returned to Mr. Fontaine. “Must I answer that question?”
“No, I guess not. Give him his paper, Ted.”
Ted drew the paper from his pocket with great reluctance. “Would you mind describing it first, so I can be sure it’s yours?”
“It has an alphabet along the top and down the side. If you find the letter V in each place, and trace down the lines to the point where they cross, you will find letter Z. Will that satisfy you?”
Ted checked and found that it was so, and restored the paper to its owner. Then Cox once more looked questioningly at Mr. Fontaine.
“All right, then, Cox, you’re still working for me, but remember to tell me before you leave the farm again. I can only use men I can depend on.”
“I’ll remember. Thank you, sir,” and Cox walked off, too jauntily to seem truly repentant.
CHAPTER 11.
THE SECRET WORD
Up in their room as they were cleaning up for supper, Ted had a chance for a private report to Nelson.
“It was probably a wasted day for me, but it’s hard to tell at this point. I went to the newspaper office in Monroe to look over their back files, then stopped off at the mission, came back through Hopalong where I learned that Cox had had a long conversation with Jake Pastor this morning, picked up Cox on my way home, and arrived home with the gas tank about five gallons lower.”
“Just what did you find out?”
“Father Warren convinced me that José wasn’t the passenger on the plane, and that’s about it, I guess. I’m no closer to knowing who the passenger was and where he is now.”
“What do you think about Mr. Fontaine’s taking Cox back on?”
“He’s probably being more generous than I would be in his place. Still, if Cox really is on to something, it might be just as well to have him around where you can keep an eye on him.
“He certainly puzzles me, though, and yet I have to admit we don’t have much against him. I suppose it’s his own business if he wants to carry a code table around with him—though I wish now I’d kept a copy of it. He asked Tony some harmless questions, might have taken her picture to enter in a photography contest, maybe gabbed with Jake Pastor just because he likes to talk, could have had a perfectly legitimate reason for going to town today, for I can see why he wouldn’t want to make long-distance calls from here. These are all little things, but how much do they add up to? The real thing I have against him is that he seems talkative enough but never talks about himself, and I don’t know why he picked this particular farm at which to apply for work, the kind of work he isn’t much suited for at that.”
Ted was so busy talking that he actually bumped into the chair before he noticed it. “Well, I see they delivered it today.”
“We drove over and picked it up. And Bob’s mother said exactly what he told us she would say, down to the very words! But I asked her if we could have it for the guest room for a while, because there was only one chair here. I’m betting it won’t be here an hour after we leave, though.”
They had their ride after supper. Then Bob and Nelson went back to mooning over their beloved engine, while Ted went up to his room to read for a while—or try to read, for his mind kept wandering. Yet he was unable to come up with very much that he had not already mentioned to Nelson. He was convinced by now that the mysterious plane had been engaged in prospecting, but prospecting for what? He hadn’t tried to pin it down more closely until recalling that long drive to Monroe stuck behind that drilling rig, it suddenly came to him: how about oil?
The more he thought of it, the more probable it seemed. An aerial survey was certainly a possibility, and there would be a need for privately acquiring leases before trying to interest one of the big oil companies in speculative drilling. But what about the hermit in the gulch? Was he interested in oil, too? This seemed a good deal less likely. Where were his maps, his testing equipment, how would he go about getting leases? One thing certain about oil was that you never knew what you had until your well was drilled and the oil either began to flow, or didn’t. Though there might be a rare case of surface seepage, it wasn’t ordinarily the sort of thing you found lying about on the ground.
The book in his lap was forgotten, and almost unthinkingly he slipped his hands down inside the cushions of the chair, a habit he had picked up as a boy when he often found small c
oins this way. He didn’t find a coin, but he did detect a crackle of paper, and he gingerly slipped it out. It was a sheet of theme paper such as is often used in school, and there was a message on it, a message that did him no good at all, for it was in code!
He jumped to his feet. This was the time at last for a showdown with Henry Cox! He found him at the bunkhouse, his work done for the day, and invited him to step outside.
“Fists, swords, pistols, or pies?” asked Cox with a laugh, but he joined Ted by the fence out of earshot of anyone else.
“I’m hoping it won’t come to that. I want you to give me back that code table—”
“Oh, I thought that was all settled, Ted. Since you weren’t prudent enough to make a copy of it, then nothing doing.”
“—in return for a code message.”
“What!” Cox cried. “A code message! Where did you get it?”
“Want to go up to my room and talk it over? There won’t be anyone there.”
“You bet,” Cox agreed, following him into the house and upstairs. After they were seated, he asked, “Now where did you find this code message?”
“Inside the cushions of the very chair you’re sitting in. We got it this morning at the Franton auction.”
“Nobody told me about any furniture. I understood there was just livestock going up, and an old car that apparently had already been gone over thoroughly, for they were trying to locate any possible relatives. I intended to search the barn later, though I didn’t really expect to find it there. It seemed to me that the message was either in the house or carried by Mr. Franton, and in either case would have been lost in the fire.”
“Then you’re still interested in this message?”
“You bet I’m interested. What’s the deal? A straight trade of my table for the message?”
“No, I don’t think it’s quite that simple. In the first place, I’d have to be sure that the table would be as useful to me as it would be to you. I’d have to know how to use it.”
The Mystery of Rainbow Gulch Page 9
