Kitabı oku: «Out of a Labyrinth», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XVI.
FLY CROOKS IN TRAFTON

My train, which left the city early in the afternoon, would arrive in Trafton at midnight. Foreseeing a long and, in my then state of mind, tedious ride, I had armed myself with a well-filled cigar case, and several copies of the latest editions of the city papers, and we had not been long on the wing before I turned my steps toward the smoking car, biting off the end of a weed as I went.

A group of four, evidently countrymen, were just beginning a game of cards. I took a seat opposite them and idly watched their progress, while I enjoyed my cigar.

Presently a gentleman from the front, seemingly attracted by their hilarity, arose and sauntered down the aisle, taking up his station behind the players, and quietly overlooking the game.

He did not glance at me, as he passed, but, from my lounging position, I could watch his face and study it at my leisure. At the first glance it struck me as being familiar; I had seen the man before, but where? Slowly, as I looked, the familiarity resolved itself into identity, and then I watched him with growing interest, and some wonder.

Seven months ago, while working upon a criminal case, I had made the acquaintance of this gentleman at a thieves' tavern, down in the slums. I was, of course, safely disguised at the time, and in an assumed character; hence I had no fear of being recognized now.

"Dimber¹ Joe" had been doing Government service, in consequence of his connection with a garroting escapade, and had but just been released from "durance vile." His hair was then somewhat shorter than was becoming; his face was unshaven, and his general appearance that of a seedy, hard-up rascal. The person before me wore his hair a little longer than the ordinary cut; his face was clean shaven, his linen immaculate, and his dress a well-made business suit, such as a merchant or banker abroad might wear. But it was Dimber Joe.

Evidently fortune had dropped a few, at least, of her favors at Dimber Joe's feet, but it was quite safe to conjecture that some one was so much the worse off for his present prosperity.

What new mischief was on foot? for it was hardly likely that Dimber Joe, late the associate of river thieves, was now undertaking an honest journey.

I resolved to watch him closely while our way was the same, and to give my Chief an account of our meeting, together with a description of Joe's "get up," at the first opportunity.

Accordingly, I remained in the smoking car during the entire journey, but no suspicious or peculiar movement, on the part of Dimber Joe, rewarded my vigilance, until the brakeman called Trafton, and we pulled into that station.

Then Dimber Joe arose, stretched himself, flung a linen duster across his arm, and, swinging in his hand a small valise, quitted the car, stepped down upon the shadowy platform just ahead of me; and, while I was looking about for Carnes, vanished in the darkness.

"Well, Carnes," I said, when we were once more alone in our room at the hotel, "what has happened? Have you seen anything that looks like a detective?"

"Niver a wan," he replied. "I've kept an open eye on every train from both ways, but the only arrival in this city, worth making mintion of, has been – who d'ye think?"

"Myself, I suppose."

"No, sir! Not a bit of it. It's a cove that means no good to Trafton, you may depend. It's Blake Simpson, and he's rooming in this very house."

"Blake Simpson! are you sure?"

"Av coorse I'm sure! Did ye ever know me to miss a face? I never saw the fellow before he came here, but I've made the acquaintance of his phiz in the rogue's gallery. He came yesterday; he wears good togs, and is playing the gentleman; you know he is not half a bad looking fellow, and his manner is above suspicion. He is figuring as a patent-right man, but he'll figure as something else before we see the last of him in Trafton, depend upon it."

Blake Simpson was known, at least by name, to every man on the force. He was a mixture of burglar, street robber, and panel-worker; and was a most dangerous character.

"Carnes," I said, slowly, "I am afraid some new misfortune menaces Trafton, if, as you say, Blake Simpson is already here, for Dimber Joe came down on the train to-night, and is in Trafton."

Carnes uttered a long, low whistle.

"Blake and Dimber Joe!" he said. "A fine pair, sure enough; and in what shape does the Dimber come?"

"He comes well-dressed, and looking like a respectable member of society."

"Well," with a prodigious yawn, "we got here first, and we will try and sleep with one eye open while they stay in Trafton. What did you learn about the Brookhouse investigation, Bathurst?"

I told him the result of our search among the city detectives, and finished by saying:

"Probably the new debutants will be strangers, and will not interfere with our movements. I wish I knew whether Bethel will eventually decide to employ a detective. I don't think he is the man to let such a matter drop."

"He won't take it up for the present, I fancy. Dr. Barnard is dangerously ill; was taken yesterday, very suddenly. They depend entirely upon Bethel; he is in constant attendance. I heard Porter say that the old gentleman's case was a desperate one, and that a change for the worse might be expected at any moment."

I was sorry to hear such news of the jovial old doctor. His was a life worth something to the community; but I was not sorry to learn that an immediate interview with Dr. Bethel could be staved off, without exciting wonder or suspicion in his mind; for, since my visit to the city, I had reconsidered my intention to confide in the doctor, and resolved to keep my own counsel, at least for the present.

Previous to my visit to the city, we had decided that it was time to explore the south road, and also that it was desirable to "get the measure" of Jim Long at the earliest opportunity.

We settled upon the best method by which to accomplish the former, and undertake the latter, object. And then Carnes, who had been very alert and active during my absence, and who was now very sleepy, flung himself upon his bed to pass the few hours that remained of darkness in slumber.

I had not yet opened up to him the subject of the Groveland operations, thinking it as well to defer the telling until I had received reports from Wyman and Earle.

We had now upon our hands a superabundance of raw material from which to work out some star cases. But, just now, the Groveland affair seemed crowding itself to the front, while the Trafton scourges, and the villainous grave-robbers, seemed to grow more and more mysterious, intangible, and past finding out.

The presence of Blake Simpson and Dimber Joe gave me some uneasiness; but, guessing that their stay in Trafton would be short, I resolved not to bring myself into prominence by notifying the authorities of the presence of two such dangerous characters, but rather to trust them to Carnes' watchfulness while I passed a day, or more if need be, in exploring the south road.

As I settled my head upon my pillow after a long meditation, I remembered that to-morrow would be Sunday, and that Tuesday was the day fixed for Miss Manvers' garden party.

CHAPTER XVII.
SOUTHWARD TO CLYDE

Early on the following morning I visited Trafton's best livery stable, and procuring a good team and light buggy, drove straight to Jim Long's cabin, intending to solicit his companionship on my ride. But the cabin was deserted; there was no sign of Jim about the premises; and, after waiting impatiently for a few moments, and uttering one or two resounding halloos, I resumed my journey alone.

I had manufactured a pretext for this journey, which was to be confided to Jim by way of setting at rest any wonder or doubt that my maneuvers might otherwise give rise to, and I had intended to seize this opportunity for sounding him, in order the better to judge whether it would be prudent to take him into our confidence, in a less or greater degree, as the occasion might warrant.

Such an ally as Jim would be invaluable, I knew; but, spite of the fact that we had been much in his society, and that we both considered ourselves, and were considered by others, very good judges of human nature, neither Carnes nor myself could say truly that we understood Jim Long.

His words were a mass of absurd contradictions, betraying no trait of his individuality, save his eccentricity; and his face was, at all times, as unreadable as the sphinx. When you turned from his contradictory words to read his meaning in his looks, you felt as if turning from the gambols of Puck to peer into a vacuum.

Regretting the loss of Jim's society, as well as the opportunity it might possibly have afforded, I urged my horses swiftly over the smooth sun-baked road, noting the aspect of the country as we flew on.

Straight and level it stretched before me, with field, orchard, and meadow on either hand; a cultivated prairie. There were well-grown orchards, and small artificial groves, rows of tall poplars, clumps of low-growing trees, planted as wind breaks, hedges high and branching, low and closely trimmed. But no natural timber, no belts of grove, no thick undergrowth; nothing that might afford shelter for skulking outlaws, or stolen quadrupeds.

The houses were plentiful, and not far apart. There were the pretentious new dwellings of the well-to-do farmers, and the humbler abodes of the unsuccessful land tiller, and the renter. There were stacks, and barns, and granaries, all honest in their fresh paint or their weather-beaten dilapidation; no haven for thieves or booty here.

So for ten miles; then there was a stretch of rolling prairie, but still no timber, and as thickly settled as before.

Fifteen miles from Trafton I crossed a high bridge that spanned a creek almost broad enough and deep enough to be called a river. On either side was a fringe of hazel brush and a narrow strip of timber, so much thinned by the wood cutter that great gaps were visible among the trees, up and down, as far as the eye could see.

I watered my horses here, and drawing forth a powerful field glass, which I had made occasional use of along the route, surveyed the country. Nothing near or remote seemed worthy of investigation.

Driving beneath some friendly green branches, I allowed my horses to rest, and graze upon the tender foliage, while I consulted a little pocket map of the country.

I had been driving directly south, and the C. & L. railroad ran from Trafton a little to the southwest. At a distance of eighteen miles from that town the railroad curved to the south and ran parallel with the highway I was now traveling, but at a distance of eight miles. Ten miles further south and I would come upon the little inland village of Clyde, and running due west from Clyde was a wagon road straight to the railroad town of Amora.

I had started early and driven fast; consulting my watch I found that it was only half-past ten.

I had intended to push my investigation at least twenty-five miles south, and although I was already convinced that no midnight raiders would be likely to choose as an avenue of escape a highway so thickly dotted with houses, many of them inconveniently near the road, and so insufficient in the matter of hills and valleys, forest and sheltering underbrush. I decided to go on to Clyde, hoping, if I failed in one direction, to increase my knowledge in another.

I put away map and field glass, lit a fresh cigar, turned my horses once more into the high road and pursued my journey.

It was a repetition of the first ten miles; broad fields and rich meadows, browsing cattle and honest-eyed sheep; thickly scattered farm buildings, all upright and honest of aspect; the whole broad face of the country seemed laughing my investigations to scorn.

When I found myself within sight of Clyde I stopped my team, having first assured myself that no spectator was in sight and selected from the roadside a small, round pebble. Looking warily about me a second time, I inserted it between the hoof and shoe of the most docile of the two horses.

It was an action that would have brought me into disfavor with the great Bergh, but in the little game I was about to play, the assistance which a lame horse could render seemed necessary.

I promised the martyr a splendid rub down and an extra feed as a compensation, and we moved on slowly toward our destination, the near horse limping painfully, and his comrade evidently much amazed, and not a little disgusted, at this sudden change of gait.

The little village of Clyde was taking its noontide nap when I drove down its principal street, and I felt like a wolf in Arcadia; all was so peaceful, so clean, so prim and so silent.

A solitary man emerging from a side street roused me to action. I drove forward and checked my horses directly before him.

Could I find a livery stable in the town? And was there such a thing as a hotel?

Yes, there was a sort of a stable, at least anybody could get a feed at Larkins' barn, and he kept two or three horses for hire. As for a hotel, there it was straight ahead of me; that biggish house with the new blinds on it.

Being directed to Larkins', I thanked my informant, and was soon making my wants known to Larkins himself.

Thinking it quite probable that the hired team which I drove might be known to some denizen of Clyde, I at once announced myself as from Trafton; adding, that I had driven out toward Clyde on business, and, being told that I could reach Baysville by a short cut through or near Clyde, I had driven on, but one of my horses having suddenly become lame, I had decided to rest at Clyde, and then return to Trafton. I had been told that Baysville was not more than seven miles from Clyde.

It is scarcely necessary to state that I had really no intention of visiting Baysville, and that my map had informed me as to its precise location.

The truth was that I had dropped for the moment the Trafton case, and had visited Clyde in the interest of Groveland, thinking it not unlikely that this little hamlet, being so near Amora, might be within the area traversed by Mr. Ed. Dwight, the sewing machine agent.

He was said to live somewhere between Amora and Sharon, perhaps here I could learn the precise location of his abiding place.

Leaving my tired horses to the care of Larkins, I next bent my steps towards the commodious dwelling which did duty as hotel. There was no office, but the sitting-room, with its homely rag carpet, gaudy lithographs, old fashioned rocker, and straight-backed "cane seats," was clean and cool. There was a small organ in one corner, a sewing machine in another, and an old fashioned bureau in a third.

A little girl, of fourteen years or less, entered the room timidly, followed by two younger children. She took from the bureau a folded cloth, snowy and smooth, and left the room quietly, but the younger ones, less timid, and perhaps more curious, remained.

Perching themselves uncomfortably upon the extreme edges of two chairs, near together but remote from me, they blinked and stared perseveringly, until I broke the silence and set them at their ease by commencing a lively conversation.

The organ was first discussed, then the sewing machine furnished a fresh topic. After a time my dinner was served: but, during the half-hour of waiting, while my hostess concocted yellow soda biscuit, and fried monstrous slices of ham, I had gathered, from my seemingly careless chatter with the children, some valuable information. While I ate my dinner, I had leisure to consider what I had heard.

My hostess had not purchased her sewing machine of Ed. Dwight, but he had been there to repair it; besides, he always stopped there when making his regular journeys through Clyde. They all liked Dwight, the children had declared; he could play the organ, and he sang such funny songs. He could dance, too, "like anything." He lived at Amora, but he had told their mother, when he had paid his last visit, that he intended to sell out his route soon, and go away. He was going into another business.

If Mr. Dwight lived at Amora, then Mrs. Ballou had misunderstood or been misinformed. She was the reverse of stupid, and not likely to err in understanding. If she had been misinformed, had it not been for some purpose?

The machine agent had talked of abandoning his present business, and leaving the country shortly.

If this was true, then it would be well to know where he was going, and what his new occupation was to be.

Before I had finished doing justice to my country dinner, I had decided how to act.

Returning to Larkins' stable I found that he had discovered the cause of my horse's lameness, and listened to his rather patronizing discourse upon the subject of "halts and sprains," with due meekness, as well as a profound consciousness that he had mentally set me down as a city blockhead, shockingly ignorant of "horse lore," and wholly unfit to draw the ribbons over a decent beast.

He had been assisted to this conclusion by a neighboring Clydeite, who, much to my annoyance, had sauntered in, and, recognizing not only the team, but myself, had volunteered the information that:

"Them was Dykeman's bays," and that I was "a rich city fellow that was stayin' at Trafton;" he had "seen me at the hotel the last time he hauled over market stuff."

Having ascertained my position in the mind of Mr. Larkins, I consulted him as to the propriety of driving the bays over to Amora and back that afternoon.

Larkins eyed me inquisitively.

"I s'pose then you'll want to get back to Trafton to-night?" he queried.

Yes, I wanted to get back as soon as possible, but if Larkins thought it imprudent to drive so far with the team, I would take fresh horses, if he had them to place at my disposal. And then, having learned from experience that ungratified curiosity, especially the curiosity of the country bumpkin with a taste for gossip, is often the detective's worst enemy, I explained that I had learned that the distance to Baysville was greater than I had supposed, and I had decided to drive over to Amora to make a call upon an acquaintance who was in business there.

Mr. Larkins manifested a desire to know the name of my Amora acquaintance, and was promptly enlightened.

I wanted to call on Mr. Ed. Dwight, of sewing machine fame.

And now I was the helpless victim in the hands of the ruthless and inquisitive Larkins.

He knew Ed. Dwight "like a book." Ed. always "put up" with him, and he was a "right good fellow, any way you could fix it." In short, Larkins was ready and willing to act as my pilot to Amora; he had "got a flyin' span of roans," and would drive me over to Amora in "less than no time"; he "didn't mind seeing Ed. himself," etc., etc.

There was no help for it. Larkins evidently did not intend to trust his roans to my unskilled hands, so I accepted the situation, and was soon bowling over the road to Amora, téte-â-téte with the veriest interrogation point in human guise that it was ever my lot to meet.

Larkins did not converse; he simply asked questions. His interest in myself, my social and financial standing, my occupation, my business or pleasure in Trafton, my past and my future, was something surprising considering the length, or more properly the brevity of our acquaintance.

Even my (supposed) relatives, near and remote, came in for a share of his generous consideration.

To have given unsatisfactory answers would have been to provoke outside investigation.

A detective's first care should be to clear up all doubt or uncertainty concerning himself. Let an inquisitive person think that he knows a little more of your private history than do his neighbors, and you disarm him; he has now no incentive to inquiry. He may ventilate his knowledge very freely, but by so doing he simply plays into your hands.

If the scraps of family history, which I dealt out to Larkins during that drive, astonished and edified that worthy, they would have astonished and edified my most intimate friend none the less.

By the time we had reached our destination, I was bursting with merriment, and he, with newly acquired knowledge.

I had made no attempt to extract information concerning Ed. Dwight, on the route. I hoped soon to interview that gentleman in propriæ personæ, and any knowledge not to be gained from the interview I could "sound" for on the return drive.