Kitabı oku: «Out of a Labyrinth», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XX.
SOME BITS OF PERSONAL HISTORY

While Miss Manvers was bidding farewell to the latest of her guests, and the "average Traftonite" was making his first voyage into dreamland, Dr. Barnard closed his eyes upon Trafton forever, and slept that long, sound, last, best sleep that comes once to all of us, and I, as well as numerous other restless sleepers, was awakened in the early morning by the sound of the tolling bell.

It was sad news to many, for Dr. Barnard was an old and well-beloved citizen.

It afforded a new subject for gossip to many more, who now learned for the first time that Louise Barnard was affianced to Dr. Carl Bethel, and that Dr. Barnard, with almost his latest breath, had proclaimed his entire faith in the young man's honor, by formally sanctioning his engagement with Louise.

I had not seen Bethel since my return from the city, until we met that day, and exchanged a few words across the dinner table.

He looked worn and weary, and seemed to have forgotten his own annoyances and interests in the absorption of his regret for the loss of his old friend and associate, and sympathy with the sorrow of his beloved.

I had spent the entire morning in writing a long letter to my Chief, giving a detailed account of my acquaintance with Miss Manvers, and a description of the lady, her style of living, and, above all, more graphic than all, my experience of the previous day, up to the moment when I closed the "rogues' gallery" and opened my eyes to a new and startling possibility.

This document I addressed to a city post-office box, and, having sealed it carefully, registered and dispatched it through the Trafton post-office.

In the afternoon I received an express package from Baysville. It was a book, so the agent said. Innocent enough, no doubt, nevertheless I did not open it until I had closed and locked my door upon all intruders.

It was a book. A cheap volume of trashy poems, but the middle leaves were cut away, and in their place I found a bulky letter.

It was Earle's report from Amora.

It was very statistical, very long, and dry because of its minuteness of detail, and the constant recurrence of dates and figures. But it was most interesting to me.

Arch Brookhouse and his brother, Louis, had both been students at Amora.

Grace Ballou and Nellie Ewing had been fellow-students with them one year ago. Last term, however, Arch had not been a student, but Louis Brookhouse, Grace Ballou, Nellie Ewing, Mamie Rutger, Amy Holmes, and Johnny La Porte, had all been in attendance.

For the last three named this was their first term.

Mamie Rutger had been expelled for misconduct, during the last half of the term.

Johnny La Porte and Louis Brookhouse had been "chums" and were, accordingly, pretty wild.

Very little could be learned concerning Amy Holmes, previous to her coming to Amora. She was said to be an orphan, and came from the South. Nothing more definite could be learned concerning her abiding place. She was lively, dashing and stylish, not particularly fond of study; in fact was considered one of the "loudest" girls in the school. Her escapades had been numerous and she had, on more than one occasion, narrowly escaped expulsion. She was particularly intimate with Nellie Ewing, Mamie Rutger, and Grace Ballou; and had been seen, on several occasions, in the company of Arch Brookhouse, who was very often at Amora.

Concerning Ed. Dwight, Earle could say very little.

Dwight had left town with his team early on Monday morning, and had not yet returned. Earle had managed, however, to obtain lodgings at Dwight's boarding-house, and had made the acquaintance of one of the "girls," who had contributed the information that Arch Brookhouse had several times dined there with Dwight.

This is an abbreviated account of what Earle's report contained. Accompanying said report was an autograph obtained from Professor Asa Bartlett, and it bore not the slightest resemblance to the printed album lines.

Considering the time consumed in the investigation, Earle had done remarkably well. He had done well, too, in going to Baysville to send the letter.

How many threads were now in my hands, and yet how powerless I was for the time!

Only yesterday I had made, or so I believed, two most important discoveries, and yet I could turn them to no account for the present.

Upon the first, it would be unwise to act until further information had been forwarded me by my Chief.

As for the second, there was nothing to do but watch. I could not take the initiative step. Action depended solely upon others, and as to the identity of these others I scarce could give a guess.

Louis Brookhouse had not been seen outside his home since his arrival, in a crippled condition, the day after Grace Ballou's escapade. I must see Louis Brookhouse. I must know the nature of that "injury" which Dr. Bethel had been called upon to attend.

For the first, I must bide my time until the youth was sufficiently recovered to appear in public. For the second, I must rely on Bethel, and, until the last sorrowful tribute of respect and affection had been paid the dead, I could scarcely hope for an interview with him.

A crisis must come soon, but it was not in our power to hasten it.

So long as Dimber Joe and Blake Simpson continued inert and seemingly aimless, so long as the days brought no new event and the nights brought neither discovery on our part nor movement on the part of the horse-thieves, Carnes and I had only to wait and watch – watch – watch.

Our days, to the onlooker, must have seemed only idle indeed, but still they were busy days.

Carnes roamed about the town, inspecting the barns and buildings closely, when he could venture a near approach without arousing suspicion or objection; at a distance, when intrusion would be unsafe or unwelcome.

Dr. Barnard was buried on Thursday, and on the afternoon of that day, as I was returning from the funeral in fact, I received a report from Wyman.

Stripped of its details, and reduced to bare facts, it amounted to this:

The "dummy" had proven of actual service. Wyman had found him with very little trouble, and in just the right place. He was domiciled with the La Porte family, and had been since the first week of his advent among the Grovelanders, and Wyman was indebted to him for much of the information contained in his report.

Acting according to our instructions, or, rather, as we had expected and desired, overacting them, the "dummy" had soon contrived to let the Grovelanders know that he was a detective, sent out from the city to occupy the premises and keep his eyes open. He talked freely of the missing girls, always frankly avowing that it was his opinion, as well as the opinion of his superiors, that the two girls had been murdered. Indeed, he darkly hinted that certain facts corroborative of this theory had been discovered, and then he lapsed into vagueness and silence. When questioned as to his system or intentions regarding the investigation he became profoundly mysterious, oracular, and unsatisfactory.

The result was all that we could have wished. The less intelligent among his critics looked upon him as a fountain of wisdom and cunning and skill. The more acute and observant fathomed his shallowness, but immediately set it down as a bit of clever acting, and, joining with their less penetrating neighbors, voted our "dummy" "wise as a serpent" underneath his "harmless as a dove" exterior, and looked confidently forward to something startling when he should finally arouse to action.

To which class of critics Johnny La Porte belonged, Wyman had been unable to discover, for during his stay in Groveland he had not seen young La Porte.

Whatever his opinion may have been, the young man had been among the first to seek our "dummy's" acquaintance, which he had cultivated so persistently that within less than a fortnight the two had become most friendly, and apparently appreciative of each other's society, and the "dummy" had found an abiding place underneath the hospitable roof of La Porte pere.

Johnny La Porte was a spoiled son. He seemed to have had his own way always, and it had not been a way to wisdom. He was not dissipated; had none of the larger and more masculine vices, but he was idle, a shirk at school and at home. He had no business tact, and seemed as little inclined to make of himself a decent farmer as he was incapable of becoming a good financier, merchant, or mechanic.

He was short of stature, and girlishly pretty, having small oval features, languid black eyes, black curly hair, and a rich complexion of olive and red.

He drove a fine span of blacks before a jaunty light carriage, and was seldom seen with his turnout except when accompanied by some one of the many pretty girls about Groveland.

In fact, he was that most obnoxious creature, a male flirt. He had roved from one bright Groveland flower to another, ever since his graduation from jackets to tail coats. During the previous Autumn and Winter, he had been very devoted to Nellie Ewing; but, since their return from school, in the Spring, his attentions had not been quite so marked, although Nellie had several times been seen behind the blacks and in company with the fickle Johnny.

In short, after reading all that Wyman could say of him, I summed Johnny La Porte up, and catalogued him as follows:

Vain, weak, idle, handsome, fickle, selfish, good-natured when not interfered with, over fond of pleasure, easily influenced, and a spendthrift.

What might or might not be expected of such a character?

He was, as Mrs. Ballou had said, popular among the young people, especially the young ladies; and where do you find a young man that drives a fine turnout, carries a well-filled purse, dances a little, sings a fair tenor and plays his own accompaniment, is handsome, and always ready for a frolic, who is not popular with the ladies?

Wyman had not seen La Porte, and for this reason:

On the evening of the 17th, young La Porte had driven away from home with his black horses, telling our "dummy," in confidence, that he was "going to take a pretty girl out riding."

La Porte and the "dummy" "roomed together," in true country fashion; and, at midnight, or later, the "dummy" could not be precise as to the lateness of the hour, he returned. Entering the room with evident caution, he nevertheless awoke the "dummy," who, turning lazily on his pillow, saw La Porte taking from a drawer something white, which our "dummy" supposed to be a handful of handkerchiefs, and from a shelf a bottle of brandy.

On seeing the open eyes of our "dummy," La Porte had explained as follows:

One of his horses went lame a bit, and he intended to give him a little treatment. The "dummy" must not disturb himself, as the hired man was on hand to render all the necessary help.

Then, as he was leaving the room, La Porte had added:

"By-the-by, if the horse comes out all right, and I am gone when you turn out in the morning, tell the old man that I am off for Baysville to see about the club excursion."

Wondering vaguely what species of lameness it was that must be treated with brandy and bandaged with linen handkerchiefs, the "dummy" fell asleep, and finding the young man absent on the following morning, delivered his message as directed.

It was received without comment, as such excursions were of frequent occurrence, and as no one presumed to question the movements of the spoiled young pleasure seeker.

He did not return on the next day, but the morning of the 19th brought him home, not, however, as he went, but in company with a sewing-machine agent whom he called Ed., and whose full name was Edward S. Dwight.

La Porte stated that his horse was lame again, and that he had left his team at Amora, and returned with Dwight in the machine wagon.

During that day La Porte accompanied Dwight on his rounds among the farmers, and early the following morning the two returned together to Amora.

That was a week ago. The following Sunday, La Porte and Dwight had again visited Groveland, this time with La Porte's own turnout. During the day they had made several calls upon young ladies, and this time our "dummy," being cordially invited, accompanied them on their rounds.

On Monday morning, as before, they returned to Amora, and since then had not reappeared in Groveland.

Wyman, according to instructions, had visited Mrs. Ballou. She had nothing new to communicate, but she gave into his hands a small package, which Wyman had inclosed with his report.

It contained three photographs; one of Miss Amy Holmes, one of Johnny La Porte, and a third of the same gentleman and Mr. Ed. Dwight, a rather rakish-looking duo.

I read and re-read Wyman's long, complete descriptive report. I studied the photographed faces again and again, and that evening, before the sunset had fairly faded from the west, I told Carnes the whole story, and placed before him the printed letter and the autographs, photographs and reports.

CHAPTER XXI.
"EVOLVING A THEORY."

"And you want me to go to New Orleans?" says Carnes, as he rises slowly, and stretches himself up to his fullest height, following up his words with an immense yawn. "What for, now?"

He has listened so attentively, so silently, with such moveless, intelligent eagerness, that I forgive him the yawn, and treat myself to a long breath of restfulness and relief, at being at last unburdened of this great secret, and he crosses the room and drops into his favorite attitude beside the window that overlooks the fast darkening street.

"I hardly know just what I expect you to unearth in New Orleans," I answer, after a pause of some moments. "But I have a notion that the links we have failed to find here may be in hiding down there."

Carnes plunges his hands deep down into his pockets. I know, from the intentness of his face, and the unwinking fixedness of the eyes that stare yet see nothing beyond the panorama conjured by his own imagination, that he is studying diligently at the Groveland problem; and I sit silently, waiting his first movement, that I feel sure will be speedily followed by something in the way of an opinion.

"It's a queer muddle," he says at last, coming back to his chair and dropping into his former attitude of interested attention. "It's a queer muddle; and, it seems to me, you have got hold of the wrong end of the business."

"How the wrong end?"

"Why, you have your supposed principals and accessories, and, perhaps, the outline of a plot; but where is your motive?"

"Where, indeed! I have not even found a theory that suits me, although I have pondered over various suppositions. You are good at this sort of analysis, Carnes. Can't you help me to some sort of a theory that won't break of its own weight?"

Carnes bit his under lip and pondered.

"How far have you got?" he asked, presently.

"I will tell you how I have reasoned thus far. Experience and statistics have proved that, of all the missing people, male and female, whose dead bodies are never found, or whose deaths are never satisfactorily proven, more than three-fourths have eventually turned up alive, or it is found they have lived many years after they were numbered among the missing. In the majority of cases, say four to one, where missing persons, supposed to have been dead, are proved to be alive, it is also proved that they have 'disappeared' of their own free will. In the list of missing young girls, the police records show that two-thirds of those supposed to have been murdered or abducted, have eloped or forsaken their friends of their own free will. Let us keep in mind these statistics and begin with Nellie Ewing. Was she murdered? Was she forcibly abducted? Did she run away?"

"Umph! If she were a man I might venture an opinion," broke in Carnes.

"Let us see. She left her house at sunset, riding a brown pony, and intent, or seeming so, upon visiting her friend, Grace Ballou."

"Grace Ballou – oh!" Carnes lifts his head, then drops it again, quickly.

I note the gesture and the ejaculation, and smile as I proceed.

"She had announced her intention of spending the night with her friend Grace, but instead of so doing, she is suddenly afflicted with a headache, and, at dusk, or perhaps even later, she sets out, on her brown pony, for home, a distance of about four miles."

"Um – ah!" from Carnes.

"She is not seen after that. Neither is the brown pony. Was she murdered? If so, no trace of her body, no clue to her murderer, no motive for the deed, has been discovered. And the horse; if she was murdered, was the horse slaughtered also? And were they both buried in one grave? She was riding alone, after nightfall, over a country road. She might have been assailed by tramps or stragglers of some sort, but the first investigation proved that nothing in the form of tramp, or stranger of any sort, had been seen about Groveland, neither on that day nor for many days previous. And again, a tramp who might have killed her to secure the horse, would hardly have tarried to conceal the body so effectually that the most thorough search could not bring it to light. Nor would he have carried it with him beyond the reach of search. Was she murdered for revenge, or from motives of jealousy? Then, in all probability, the brown horse would have been found wandering somewhere at large."

"It won't do," mutters Carnes, half to himself, and with a slow wag of the head; "it won't do."

"That's what I said to myself, after reviewing the pros and cons of the 'murder theory.' Now, was Nellie Ewing abducted? She may have been, but, again, there's the missing horse. If a tramp or a horse-thief would take the horse, and leave the girl, a desperate lover would just as surely take the girl and leave the horse. Again, an avaricious lover might, with some difficulty, secure both horse and rider, but he could hardly travel far with an unwilling girl and a stolen horse, without becoming uncomfortably conspicuous. Did the young lady elope? If so, then it is my belief that she and her horse parted company very soon after she left the widow Ballou's. And here ends my theorizing. How, and why, and whither, the horse was spirited away, I can not guess."

"If the thing had occurred in Trafton," says Carnes, thoughtfully, "one might account for the horse."

"True; but as it did not occur within the limit of the Trafton operations, I naturally concluded that, if the young lady really did abscond, her lover must have had a confederate who took charge of the horse. But, at first, this seemed to me improbable."

"Why improbable?"

"Because I did not view the matter, as you do now, in the light of after discoveries and developments."

"Then you think now that Miss Ewing eloped?"

"I think she was not murdered; and the elopement theory is much more plausible, more reasonable, all things considered, than that of abduction. First of all, there are the movements of the girl herself. Supposing her quartered for the night with her friend Grace, 'Squire Ewing felt no uneasiness at her absence, even when it was prolonged into the second day. Might she not have considered all this when she planned her flight? When she was actually missed, she had two days the start of her inquiring friends."

"True."

"Then, not long after, Mamie Rutger, a friend and schoolmate of the missing Nellie, also disappears. While it is yet daylight, or at least hardly dark, she vanishes from her father's very door-step, and is seen no more. Now, let me call your attention to some facts. Farmer Rutger's house stands on a bit of rising ground; the road runs east and west. To the east of the house is a thick grove of young trees planted as a wind-break for the cattle. This belt of trees begins at the front of the house and extends northward, the house being on the north side of the highway, past the barns, cow stables, and sheep pens. So while a person in the front portion of the house, on the porch or in the door-yard, can obtain a clear view of the road to the west, those farther back, in the kitchen, the stables, or the milking sheds, are shut off from a view of the road by the wind-break on the one hand, by a high orchard hedge on the other, and by the house and thick door-yard shrubbery in front. For over an hour, on the night of her disappearance, Mamie Rutger was the only person within view of this highway. The hired girl was in the kitchen washing up the supper things. Mrs. Rutger, who, by-the-by, is Miss Mamie's step-mother, was skimming milk in the cellar, and Mr. Rutger, with the two hired men, were watering and feeding the stock and milking the cows. When the work for the night was done and the lamps were lighted, if they thought of Mamie at all it was as sitting alone on the front piazza, or perched in her chamber window up-stairs, enjoying the quiet of the evening. It was only when their early bed-time came that the girl's absence, and more than that, her unusual silence, was noted, and that a search proved her missing. Was she murdered? That theory in this case is so unreasonable that I discard it at once."

Carnes nodded his head approvingly.

"Was she abducted? Possibly; but to my mind, it is not probable. Mamie Rutger was a gypsyish lassie, pretty as a May blossom, skittish as a colt, hard to govern and prone to adventurous escapades. Her father was kind and her step-mother meant to be so, but the latter perpetually frowned down the girl's innocent hilarity, and curbed her gayety, when she could, with a stern hand. They sent her to school to tame her, and the faculty, after bearing with her, and forgiving her many mischievous pranks because of her youth, at last sent her home in disgrace, expelled. If this girl, wearied of a humdrum farmhouse existence and thirsting for a broader glimpse of the gay outer world, had planned an elopement or runaway escapade, she could have chosen no better time. While all the others are busy at their evening task, she, from the front, watches for a swift horse and a covered buggy, which comes from the west. Sure that no eyes are looking, she awaits it at the gate, springs in, with a backward glance, and when she is missed, is miles away."

"Yes, I see," comments Carnes, dryly; "it's a pity your second sight couldn't keep 'em in view till ye see where they land."

I curb my imagination. That useful quality is deficient in the cranium of my comrade; he can neither follow nor sympathize.

"Well, here is the condensed truth for you," I reply, amiably: "for this much we have ocular and oral testimony: Four young ladies attend school at Amora; all are pretty, under the age of discretion, and, with perhaps one exception, little versed in the ways of the world and its wickedness. During their sojourn at school, where they are not under constant discipline owing to the fact that they all board outside of the Seminary, and all together, they are much in the society of four young men, two of whom are students of the Seminary. This quartette of youths are more or less good looking, and all of them notably 'gay and festive,' after the manner of the stereotyped young man of the period."

"Right you are now," ejaculated Carnes.

"Just how these gentlemen divided their affections or attentions," I continue, "it is difficult to say, in regard to all. We know that Mr. Johnny La Porte was the chosen cavalier of Miss Ewing, and that Arch Brookhouse and Amy Holmes were frequently seen in each other's society. We are told that the eight young people formed frequent pleasure parties; riding, picnicking, passing social evenings together.

"They leave school; their jolly companionship is over. By-and-by, Nellie Ewing disappears; a little later, Mamie Rutger is also missing; after a little time the other two young ladies are caught in the act of escaping from home, by the means of a ladder placed at their chamber window by an unknown man, while a second, it is supposed, awaits their coming with horses and vehicle. This much for the ladies of this octette. Now, upon inquiring after the whereabouts of the gentlemen, we find that upon the night of this last named escapade, Johnny La Porte, with his buggy and horses, was absent from home from sunset until after midnight. That he returned when all the household was asleep, and securing some clean handkerchiefs and a flask of brandy, ostensibly to doctor a sick horse, he again goes, and returns after an absence of two days, accompanied by another member of the octette, Mr. Ed. Dwight."

"That's a point," assented Carnes.

"Now, we have previously learned," I resume, "that said Dwight is about to abandon his old trade and quit the country. We also remember that Mrs. Ballou shot at, and believes she hit, the man who was assisting her daughter and guest to escape from the house. Very good. During the time that Johnny La Porte is absent from his home, Mr. Louis Brookhouse is brought home to Trafton, in a covered buggy, by some unknown friend, with a crippled limb!"

"I see; that's a clincher," muttered Carnes.

"This much for three of the gay Lotharios," I continue. "Now for Arch Brookhouse. In Grace Ballou's autograph album is a couplet, very neatly printed and signed A. B. It bears date one year back, and one year ago Grace Ballou and Arch Brookhouse were both students at Amora. Not long since I received an interesting letter of warning, and I believe it was written by the same hand that indited the lines beginning 'I drink to the eyes of my schoolmate, Grace.'"

Carnes opened his lips, but I hurried on.

"I have noted one other thing, which, if you like, you may call coincidence of latitude. The eldest of the Brookhouse brothers is a resident of New Orleans. At about the time of Nellie Ewing's disappearance, Louis Brookhouse went to New Orleans, returning less than two weeks ago. Amy Holmes is vaguely described as being 'somewhere South,' and Ed. Dwight meditates a Southern journey soon."

"It looks like a league," says Carnes, scratching his head, and wrinkling his brows in perplexity. "Are they going to form a colony of some new sort? What's your notion?"

"My notion is that we had better not waste our time trying to guess out a motive. Consider the language of the telegram sent by Fred Brookhouse to his brother, and the reply to it, and then reflect upon the possible meaning of both. The New Orleans brother says:

Hurry up the others, or we are likely to have a balk.

"Arch answers:

Next week L – will be on hand.

"Hurry up the others! What others? Why are they likely to have a 'balk?' Are the two missing girls there, in charge of Fred Brookhouse, and are they becoming restive at the non-appearance of the others? If they had succeeded in escaping, would Grace Ballou and Amy Holmes have gone to New Orleans in company with Louis Brookhouse?"

"By Saint Patrick, I begin to see!" cried Carnes.

"The telegram sent by Arch," I resume, "implies that Louis was already here, or near here. Yet he made his first appearance at his father's house two days later. Is Ed. Dwight going to New Orleans to embrace the 'heel and toe business,' under the patronage of Fred Brookhouse, who, it is said, is connected with a theater? Is Johnny La Porte in hiding at Amora? or has he already 'gone to join the circus?'"

Carnes springs suddenly to his feet.

"By the powers, old man, I see how it looks to you;" he cries, "an' ye've got the thing by the right end at last. I'll go to New Orleans; only say when. But," here his face lengthens a little, "ye must get Wyman, or some one else, here in my place. I wish we had got that horse rendezvous hunted down."

"As to that," I respond, "give yourself no uneasiness; I believe that I have found the right place, and to-night I mean to confirm my suspicion."

Carnes stares astonished.

"How did you manage it?" he asks, "and when?"

"Two days ago, and by accident. You will be surprised, Carnes. It is a barn."

"It is?"

"A lead-colored barn, finished in brown."

"What?"

"It is large, and nearly square," I hasten to say, enjoying his marked amazement. "A large stack of hay is pitched against the rear end, running the length of it. It has a cupola and a flagstaff."

Carnes simply stares.

"I will send for Wyman if I need his help. What I am studying upon now is a sufficient pretext for sending you away suddenly."

"I'll furnish that," Carnes says, with a droll roll of his eye. "To-morrow I'll get drunk – beastly drunk. You shall inquire after me about the hotel and at Porter's. By-and-by I will come into the office too drunk to be endurable. You must be there to reprimand me. I grow insolent; you discharge me. I go away somewhere and sleep off the effects of my spree. You pay me my wages in the presence of the clerk, and at midnight I board the train en route for the Sunny South. You shall hear from me – "

"By telegraph," I interrupt. "We shall have a new night operator here within the week. I arranged for that when I was in the city, and wrote the old man, yesterday, to send him on at once."

"All right; that's a good move," approved Carnes.

"And now," I said, rising hastily, and consulting my watch, "I must go. To-night, or perhaps in the 'small hours,' we will talk over matters again, and I will explain myself further. For the present, good-by; I am expected to-night at the Hill; I shall pass the evening in the society of Miss Manvers."