Kitabı oku: «The Secret Toll», sayfa 5

CHAPTER IX – LUCY

Forrester had at first been in a quandary as to the character in which he should approach the negress. If she were open to suspicion it would be unwise for him to pose as a detective, or openly confess to being a victim of the "Friends of the Poor." As he weighed the matter, a recollection of Humphrey offered him a suggestion. Why not, for the moment, assume the character of Humphrey and approach her as a reporter? The fact that neither Humphrey nor the detectives had at any time referred to her, and that no one outside of Joshua had mentioned her, led him to believe that her retreat in the woods had remained unnoticed. A visit by him in the guise of a reporter would probably be the first of the kind that she had received. Although he knew Humphrey had not made use of a notebook while interviewing him, Forrester believed that a notebook would impress an ignorant colored woman. In her mind it would more fully bear out his claim to being a reporter. In accordance with this idea Forrester had provided himself with a new and imposing notebook which he was prepared to pull out as soon as he started his interview with the negress.

Leaving the road, Forrester followed the path around the oak and back into the woods. The thick foliage shut out every ray of sunlight and Forrester could well imagine how the gloom and silence of these woods would give full play to superstitious minds. If the negress were seeking to hide herself, the woods in themselves formed an eerie protection. The path turned sharply to the right just beyond the tree and Forrester had gone only a few yards when he was startled to find himself unexpectedly in front of her cottage. He had supposed the place to be more deeply buried in the woods, and this precipitant arrival at her door impressed Forrester at once with the negress' accusatory proximity to the oak tree. A savage snarl greeted Forrester as he stepped into the small clearing in front of the house and he saw a half-breed dog facing him with teeth bared and hair bristling. Forrester spoke soothingly to the animal but the sound of his voice seemed only to enrage it the more and it barked loudly. He hastily glanced about for a club with which to defend himself in case the beast should attempt to attack him. Just at this moment, however, the cottage door opened and the negress stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with wiry, jet-black hair that contrasted strangely with the sickly yellow of her skin. Her eyelids drooped and at first Forrester thought she was squinting at him, but as he discovered later, this was a natural affection of the eyelids. It gave her a peculiarly sinister look and Forrester felt an aversion for her the moment she appeared in the doorway. She stood with her hands on her hips and silently looked him over.

"How do you do," said Forrester.

"Good afternoon," she returned, sullenly, her voice deep and harsh.

"Would you mind calling off that dog?" requested Forrester. "I want to have a chat with you."

"About what?" she asked.

"Oh, about yourself, and the oak tree, and what has been going on there lately."

"I don't know anything about it!" she snapped.

"I'm sorry," said Forrester. "I thought perhaps you would know something about it."

"What made you think that?" she demanded.

Forrester immediately fell into Humphrey's manner so far as he could recollect it. "I'm a reporter for the Times," he explained. "I have been assigned to write up a special feature article for next Sunday's edition about this tree that the 'Friends of the Poor' have been using, and the neighborhood. While scouting around I just now happened to discover your cottage. Naturally, it occurred to me that anyone living so near to the oak tree might know something about it."

There is a certain glamour and attraction connected with reporters, newspapers and special interviews which appears to appeal to persons in all stations of life. Forrester observed that his remarks had had a very softening effect upon the negress. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and administered a kick to the dog.

"Get out!" she cried, and as the beast slunk off into the woods she turned to Forrester. "Come in," she invited.

Forrester had observed that though the woman's voice was monotonous and expressionless in character, she used excellent English, without a trace of negro dialect. In her pronunciation, however, the slight accent peculiar to West Indian negroes was noticeable. Before the door had been opened Forrester had also noted that the cottage was a small one-story affair and as he now passed through the door he marked a partition, with a doorway, running across the center, and concluded that the interior of the cottage was divided into two rooms. As the negress closed the door behind him Forrester quickly scanned the room into which he had been ushered. This was about twelve by fifteen feet, and quite obviously served as both kitchen and sitting room. A small iron cookstove stood in one corner, a table occupied the center of the room, and a rocking chair and two straight-backed chairs of ancient design completed the furnishings. On a small stand in the window next to the entrance door stood an old glass aquarium, covered with wire netting. It contained no water, however, and Forrester discovered several small snakes slowly coiling themselves around on the gravel in the bottom. It instantly recalled to his mind that the Voodoo worshippers of the West Indies used snakes in their ceremonies.

The woman crossed the room and seated herself in the rocking chair, but did not invite Forrester to sit down. He selected one of the straight-backed chairs, pulled it up to the table, and as he sat down drew out his notebook and spread it open on the table in an ostentatious manner that could not fail to impress the woman.

"What is your name?" he inquired.

"Lucy."

"Lucy what?"

"That's all – just Lucy."

"You've lived around here for some time, I suppose?" asked Forrester.

"About two years," she replied.

"Have you a husband?" he queried, glancing about the room as if he expected to see a man in some corner.

"I did have," she said, "but he ran away soon after we moved in here."

"Too bad – too bad," sympathized Forrester, as he made some notes in his book. Then he added, "Now, what can you tell me about the goings-on at this tree?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, frankly," said Forrester, "I haven't a very clear idea of what I do want to know. You see, that's just what I came to you about. I thought perhaps you could tell me something regarding what was going on here. Have you ever seen any of the men who make use of that tree?"

"No," she declared, "and no one ever will."

"What do you mean by that?" queried Forrester.

"No men ever come near that tree – just ghosts. It's haunted!"

Forrester stared for a moment. It was curious how all these people agreed on that one point. He could understand how an ignorant colored man could have his superstitions aroused, and he could see how a plain man like Green might be tricked; but it was hard to believe that this apparently educated colored woman, living for two years within the shadow of the tree, could be fooled. This, he concluded, was suspicious circumstance number one, and as he glanced toward the snakes in the aquarium he strongly suspected that if she were willing, the negress could give him some inside facts regarding the manifestations at the tree.

"What do you keep those snakes for?" he asked, suddenly.

"They're part of my religion," she returned.

"Don't you go to church?" inquired Forrester.

"Not the church these niggers around here go to," she sneered. "I worship in my own way."

Forrester did not venture to question her further on this point, for he had read enough regarding the Voodoo worship to know that they were extremely reticent in describing their ceremonies. The possession of the snakes suggested to Forrester that this woman might even be a priestess of the sect, because he remembered having read that only the priests and priestesses were accustomed to using snakes in their ceremonies. Another thought came to Forrester at this moment, which gave him a decided start. Voodoo worshippers had been known to demand human sacrifices! Was he, after all, actually discovering clues which the detectives had overlooked?

"Well," he went on, again addressing the negress, "if there are ghosts instead of men hanging around that tree, perhaps you can tell me something about what they do. I'm sure this is going to make a most interesting story for my paper."

"I have never seen anything," explained Lucy, "but sometimes when I come home late at night I hear things."

"Such as – " suggested Forrester.

"Oh, groans and sighs – rattling chains – and sometimes the sound of a bell."

This was positive confirmation of Green's story, and Forrester pondered before asking his next question. He remembered Joshua's assertion that he had plainly heard words, so he asked:

"Do you ever hear voices saying anything?"

"Nothing distinctly. Just sighs and groans and sounds like that, as if somebody were in trouble."

"You think, then," said Forrester, "that it is just some uneasy soul that haunts that tree?"

"Yes," she replied.

"But," protested Forrester, "what could a ghost want with good United States money?"

"I don't know," replied Lucy. "In my worship I sometimes commune with the spirits, but they have never told me how they could use money."

"Have you ever tried to commune with this ghost?" asked Forrester.

"No," replied Lucy. "I don't think it belongs to my people."

"Suppose I were to offer you a good sum of money to try to communicate with it?" suggested Forrester.

"I don't need money," she replied.

"Don't you have to work for a living?"

"No."

"How do you manage to live then?"

"I don't need money to live. I can get on."

Forrester glanced around the room once more. The cookstove appeared to be without a fire and there were no signs of food. He wondered.

Turning again to Lucy, Forrester said, "Strange about the ghost that haunts that tree, Lucy. Did you ever hear of anyone being murdered around here?"

"No," she replied. Then added, after a slight pause, as she rose and walked toward the door, "Guess you have found out all I can tell you, Mister. You'd better go now – before my dog comes back."

The uncanny atmosphere of the place, the nearby snakes in their glass prison, and the weird conversation regarding ghosts and singular forms of worship, had given Forrester a very uncomfortable feeling. He knew now why Green had temporarily lost his nerve, for he was quite willing to take the woman's undisguised hint about his own immediate departure. Slipping his notebook into his pocket and putting on his cap, Forrester thanked her for the interview and hurriedly passed through the door, which was slammed on his heels.

CHAPTER X – CROSSED THEORIES

The long drive into the city from the North Shore delayed Forrester so that he did not reach the Nevins' home until the funeral services had ended, and though he joined the cortège which followed the remains of the banker to the cemetery he did not have an opportunity to speak to his mother about the letter which the girl had entrusted to him. At dinner, however, he passed the letter across the table to his mother with the remark:

"There's a note I was requested to bring to you – and in which I am very much interested."

Mrs. Forrester withdrew the letter from its envelope, adjusted her glasses and glanced at the writing. Hastily she turned to the signature and exclaimed, "Why, it's from Helen!" Then, turning to Josephine, added, "You remember Mrs. Lewis, my dear. Her husband was appointed to the vice-presidency of a New York bank about two years ago. She wrote to me several times and then our correspondence gradually dropped off. I was thinking of her only recently, and wondering how she was getting on in New York."

"We remember her perfectly, Mother," broke in Forrester, impatiently. "We want to know what the letter says."

"We!" echoed Josephine, surprised. "I'm sure I'm not especially interested."

Mrs. Forrester glanced through the note. "It is a letter of introduction," she explained, looking over her glasses at Forrester. "How odd! Helen asks me to do what I can to make Miss Mary Sturtevant's stay in Chicago a pleasant one. Strange that she did not write me directly."

"Oh," breathed Josephine, smiling wisely at Forrester.

"Does she say who Miss Sturtevant is?" queried Forrester.

"The daughter of some very dear friends of Helen's. The Sturtevants are an old New York family, she says. I'm quite sure that I have heard of them."

"May I be permitted to inquire," said Josephine, roguishly, "how Mr. Robert Forrester came to be the bearer of this note, and wherefrom springs his intense interest?"

Forrester colored, then frowned severely upon his sister.

"I met the young lady through an accident this morning. When she learned who I was she asked me to bring this letter to you. She had intended presenting it in person, but learned after arriving that we would not be moving to 'Woodmere' for some days."

"My! What a simple and straightforward explanation," smiled Josephine. "Why not tell us all about it, Bob?"

Forrester scowled at his sister, and sipped from his water glass to gain time to collect his thoughts. He was not sure at this time just how much he ought to tell. He set the glass down and briefly related how his car had frightened the girl's horse, leaving it to be assumed that she had at that time given him the letter.

"What an extraordinary coincidence!" exclaimed Mrs. Forrester. At that moment her attention was distracted by a question from the maid, and Josephine, leaning toward Forrester, whispered, "Some time I want to hear the whole story, Bob. It's so romantic!"

Happily for Forrester's peace of mind the conversation drifted to other things, and as soon as dinner was over he hurried to his favorite corner in the library. He wanted to think, not alone of Mary Sturtevant and her vague connection with the mystery, but of the negress, Lucy, and the perplexing new aspect she had given to the case. There seemed no apparent alliance between the two, yet both were strangely, though obscurely, associated with it. Forrester had no sooner lighted his pipe, however, when the door-bell rang, and a moment later a servant announced that two men wished to see him. For an instant he was startled, yet it did not seem likely that the "Friends of the Poor" would approach him in this open way.

"Did they give any names?" he asked.

"No, just said they were from the police department, sir," was the reply.

"Oh!" exclaimed Forrester, relieved. "Send them in."

Two heavily built men entered the room. They were strikingly alike in their general appearance; tall, broad shouldered, with big feet, large hands, and smooth-shaven, plump, ruddy faces. Forrester thought as he looked at them that there was small wonder so many criminals escaped. The average city detective was a type! Easily recognized and therefore readily avoided.

"Is this Mr. Forrester?" inquired one of the men.

"Yes," answered Forrester, as he rose from his chair.

"Well," continued the man, "my name's Cahill, and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant O'Connor. We come from the detective bureau."

"I'm glad to know you both," returned Forrester, smiling. "Sit down, please," and he indicated nearby chairs. The two detectives seated themselves and Forrester passed the humidor before returning to his chair. The three men puffed their cigars in silence for a time, the detectives evidently enjoying the flavor and aroma of Forrester's excellent cigars, while he awaited the explanation of their visit.

"We came to see you about this 'Friends of the Poor' matter," began Cahill, who appeared to be the spokesman for the pair. "My partner and me are working on the case."

"Making any progress?" inquired Forrester, fully convinced in his own mind, however, that they were not.

"Well, we are, and we arn't," answered Cahill. "You see, O'Connor and me were in the police auto the other night – the night you tipped us off. We're both some shots, and we felt pretty sure we had hit that car we were chasing. So we've been scouting around the West Side garages looking for a car with bullet holes."

"Why the West Side?" questioned Forrester, inwardly amused as he thought of Humphrey's arraignment of the detectives' methods.

Cahill smiled wisely at O'Connor, and O'Connor smiled significantly back at his partner.

"You see," explained Cahill, "we know crooks' ways pretty well. When anything gets pulled off we can tell from the method used just about where to look for our men. We have felt pretty sure all the time that this was some Black Hand bunch from the Dago settlement on the West Side. It's the same line of approach. The only difference is that they're operating a little higher up than usual, and choking the guys off quietly with some kind of gas, instead of filling them full of lead from a sawed-off shotgun. The idea's the same, only they're getting a little more ambitious – that's all."

"And about the car," prompted Forrester, still amused at the trend of the detectives' theories.

"That's just the point," continued Cahill. "Today we located a car with half a dozen bullet holes in the back in a garage out on Grand Avenue. Grand Avenue, you know, is full of Dagos all the way from the river. The garage man said it was left there late Tuesday night by three young Italians. Now, do you get the idea?"

Forrester did, and he was astounded at the news.

"You mean," he queried, "that you ascribe this whole affair to some West Side Black Hand band, and that this car proves your theory?"

"Sure thing!" assented Cahill. "O'Connor and me have been working on this case for months. Sometimes we thought we had a clue, and then again we didn't. We have suspected Black Handers from the first, but we couldn't exactly get a line on them. That tip you gave us Tuesday night started things right. Now we know where we're at. There's three detectives in overalls in that garage right now, and if those guys come back for their car the whole thing'll be cleared up in a jiffy."

"What makes you think that this is the car you wanted?" persisted Forrester, still doubting the correctness of the detectives' theories.

"Headquarters has no report of any other car being shot at by the police. And this car was left late Tuesday night. Get the idea?"

Forrester pulled reflectively at his cigar. He was overwhelmed. The suspicions he had entertained regarding the weird negress, the girl on the horse and her colored servant, were knocked flat. The half-formed theories he had been building up around them were completely shattered. The growing pride he had felt in his own detective talents was crushed, and the discoveries in which he had exulted were rendered valueless. After all, the hard-headed, plodding, unimaginative city detectives knew their business best. There was really no mystery or romance to crime; no clever men pitting their brains against those of astute detectives. The criminal class was nothing more than the police claimed it to be – just a stunted, unnatural, evil-smelling plant, with its roots buried deep in the sordid, filthy dives and foreign settlements of the West Side. Forrester was disappointed; deeply disappointed. In spite of the danger, worry and uncertainty, the thing had gotten into his blood during the last few days. It had fired his imagination, stirred his latent energies, and awakened his brain. And now the whole elaborate structure which had been slowly building up toward the skies collapsed in one moment to reveal nothing save a few murderous thugs concealed in the cellar.

Forrester heaved a sigh.

"Relieved, eh?" chuckled Cahill. "Thought the police were no good, and that you had to kiss ten thousand bucks good-by?"

Forrester laughed. Now the humor of the situation struck him. Green's long study of the problem, his careful tabulation of information and secretly developed theories, were in the same class with Humphrey's suggested scientific solution, and Forrester's own investigations and conjectures. No wonder the Chief of Detectives had said, "Novices only hamper us."

"No," explained Forrester, in answer to Cahill's comment, "I hadn't exactly lost faith in the police. But I will say this: I have recently made some peculiar and interesting discoveries on my own account, and now you have practically knocked the foundation from under them with your very matter of fact solution of the mystery."

"We ain't solved it yet, remember," objected Cahill. "We've simply got a line on the right people, and in due time we'll get our hands on them. We may still have to ask you to help us. That's what we dropped in for this evening."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Forrester.

"Well, you see it's this way," explained Cahill. "If those Dagos come back to the garage between now and Saturday, we'll have them. But if they get wise that we found the car, they may chuck it and steal another one. In that case we'll sure get them at the oak tree up there on the North Shore Saturday night. What we want you to do is to put that money in the tree at the time we tell you to, so that we will be ready."

"But nobody has ever succeeded in locating these people at the tree," protested Forrester.

"I know," admitted Cahill, grinning, "but O'Connor and me have worked out a plan. We figure that in the past these guys have been able to slip in between the detectives on watch. You see, it's pretty dark in those woods at night. Our plan is going to put a stop to that. It's like this:

"We're going to put a peg in the ground on each side of the tree, back and front. O'Connor will be on one side and me on the other. There'll be a string from each peg running to O'Connor, and the same thing on the other side to me. We'll hold these strings, one in each hand. Now, that completely surrounds the tree, so that anyone approaching will kick into a string. We'll know from the hand the string's in just what direction to look for them in the dark. O'Connor's strings will be A and B, and mine will be C and D. Get the idea?

"If O'Connor feels a tug, he'll yell A or B at me. If I get a feel on one of my strings I'll holler C or D. Get me? Then we'll both make a rush at just the right spot. Believe me, Mr. Forrester, we got them this time. No sneaking up between detectives next Saturday night."

"The idea sounds very good, Cahill," agreed Forrester. "Perhaps it will work. If I don't hear from you in the meantime, what hour do you wish me to approach the tree on Saturday night?"

"We've fixed on ten-thirty, if that is convenient for you, Mr. Forrester," answered Cahill.

"That suits me," declared Forrester.

"And now, we'll be going," announced Cahill, rising. "Thanks for the cigar. As fine a smoke as I've had in a long time."

"Bang up," murmured O'Connor.

"Take another along," suggested Forrester, accepting the hint.

The two detectives each carefully selected another cigar, and then Forrester went with them to the door.

"What will you do if the ghosts supposed to haunt that tree should appear?" inquired Forrester.

"You don't believe that stuff, do you, Mr. Forrester?" asked Cahill, scornfully.

"Well, several people, unknown to one another, have agreed on the details."

Cahill smiled. "Maybe so," he said, "but don't forget that O'Connor and me can shoot, Mr. Forrester. We can lay out any ghost that ever ghosted."

"You certainly have my best wishes for your success," said Forrester.

"Don't worry any more," assured Cahill, as he passed out. "The police have got this gang dead to rights this time. Saturday night will end it!"