Gibbs George
The Vagrant Duke
CHAPTER VIII
THE PLACARD
The look that she had given him showed her sense of his sympathy. So he ventured,
"Did you hear from your father before he died?"
"Aunt Tillie did, – once. Then we got word he'd been killed in a railway accident out West. I was glad. A man like that has no right to live."
"You and Aunt Tillie have had a pretty hard time – " he mused.
"Yes. She's an angel – and I love her. Why is it that good people have nothin' but trouble? She had an uncle who went bad too – he was younger than she was – my great-uncle – Jack Bray – he forged a check – or somethin' up in Newark – and went to the penitentiary."
"And is he dead too?"
"No – not at last accounts. He's out – somewhere. When I was little he used to come to Aunt Tillie for money – a tall, lantern-jawed man. I saw him once three years ago. He was here. Aunt Tillie tried to keep me out of the kitchen. But I thought he was up to some funny business and stayed. He took a fancy to me. He said he was camera man in the movies. He wanted me to go with him – thought I could be as good as Mary Pickford. I'm glad I didn't go – from what I know now. He was a bad man. Aunt Tillie was scared of him. Poor soul! She gave him all she had – most of what was left from the old farm, I guess."
"Do you think – " began Peter, then paused. And as she glanced at him inquiringly, "Did you notice that your Aunt Tillie seemed – er – frightened last night?" he asked at last.
"I thought so for a while, but she said she was only sick. She never lies to me."
"She seemed very much disturbed."
"Her nerve's not what it used to be – especially since Mr. McGuire's taken to seein' things – "
"You don't believe then that she could have seen John Bray – that he had come back again last night?"
"Why, no," said Beth, turning in surprise. "I never thought of it – and yet," she paused, "yes, – it might have been – "
She became more thoughtful but didn't go on. Peter was on the trail of a clew to the mystery, but she had already told him so much that further questions seemed like personal intrusion. And so,
"I'd like to tell you, Beth," he said, "that I'm your friend and Mrs. Bergen's. If anything should turn up to make you unhappy or to make your aunt unhappy and I can help you, won't you let me know?"
"Why – do you think anything is goin' to happen?" she asked.
His reply was noncommittal.
"I just wanted you to know you could count on me – " he said soberly. "I think you've had trouble enough."
"But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she said with a shrug, "even if Aunt Tillie is. He can't do anything to me. He can't make me go to New York if I don't want to."
She had clenched her brown fists in her excitement and Peter laughed.
"I think I'd be a little sorry for anybody who tried to make you do anything you didn't want to do," he said.
She frowned. "Why, if I thought that bandy-legged, lantern-jawed, old buzzard was comin' around here frightenin' Aunt Tillie, I'd – I'd – "
"What would you do?"
"Never you mind what I'd do. But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she finished confidently.
The terrors that had been built up around the house of McGuire, the mystery surrounding the awe-inspiring prowler, the night vigils, the secrecy – all seemed to fade into a piece of hobbledehoy buffoonery at Beth's contemptuous description of her recreant relative. And he smiled at her amusedly.
"But what would you say," he asked seriously, "if I told you that last night Mr. McGuire saw the same person your Aunt Tillie did, and that he was terrified – almost to the verge of collapse?"
Beth had risen, her eyes wide with incredulity.
"Merciful Father! McGuire! Did he have another spell last night? You don't mean – ?"
"I went up to his room. He was done for. He had seen outside the drawing-room window the face of the very man he's been guarding himself against."
"I can't believe – ," she gasped. "And you think Aunt Tillie – ?"
"Your Aunt Tillie talked to a man outside the door of the kitchen. You didn't hear her. I did. The same man who had been frightening Mr. McGuire."
"Aunt Tillie!" she said in astonishment.
"There's not a doubt of it. McGuire saw him. Andy saw him too, – thought he was the chauffeur."
Beth's excitement was growing with the moments.
"Why, Aunt Tillie didn't know anything about what was frightening Mr. McGuire – no more'n I did," she gasped.
"She knows now. She wasn't sick last night, Beth. She was just bewildered – frightened half out of her wits. I spoke to her after you went home. She wouldn't say a word. She was trying to conceal something. But there was a man outside and she knows who he is."
"But what could Jack Bray have to do with Mr. McGuire?" she asked in bewilderment.
Peter shrugged. "You know as much as I do. I wouldn't have told you this if you'd been afraid. But Mrs. Bergen is."
"Well, did you ever?"
"No, I never did," replied Peter, smiling.
"It does beat anything."
"It does. It's most interesting, but as far as I can see, hardly alarming for you, whatever it may be to Mr. McGuire or Mrs. Bergen. If the man is only your great-uncle, there ought to be a way to deal with him – "
"I've just got to talk to Aunt Tillie," Beth broke in, moving toward the door. Peter followed her, taking up his hat.
"I'll go with you," he said.
For a few moments Beth said nothing. She had passed through the stages of surprise, anger and bewilderment, and was now still indignant but quite self-contained. When he thought of Beth's description of the Ghost of Black Rock House, Peter was almost tempted to forget the terrors of the redoubtable McGuire. A man of his type hardly lapses into hysteria at the mere thought of a "bandy-legged buzzard." And yet McGuire's terrors had been so real and were still so real that it was hardly conceivable that Bray could have been the cause of them. Indeed it was hardly conceivable that the person Beth described could be a source of terror to any one. What was the answer?
"Aunt Tillie doesn't know anything about McGuire," Beth said suddenly. "She just couldn't know. She tells me everything."
"But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have met in New York – "
"What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully.
Peter laughed.
"It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters."
"I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe it."
They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns, stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing.
Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it.
They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side by side, and intensely interested, they read:
TO MIKE McGUIRE
I've come back.
You know what i've got and i know what you've got. Act pronto. I'll come for my answer at eleven Friday night – at this tree. No tricks. If there's no answer – you know what i'll do.
HAWK.
"Hawk!" muttered Beth, "who on earth – ?"
"Another – ," said Peter cryptically.
"You see!" cried Beth triumphantly, "I knew it couldn't be Jack Bray!"
"This chap seems to be rather in earnest, doesn't he? Pronto! That means haste."
"But it's only a joke. It must be," cried Beth.
Peter loosened the knife, took the placard down and turned it over, examining it critically.
"I wonder." And then, thoughtfully, "No, I don't believe it is. It's addressed to McGuire. I'm going to take it to him."
"Mike McGuire," corrected Beth. And then, "But it really does look queer."
"It does," assented Peter; "it appears to me as if this message must have come from the person McGuire saw last night."
Beth looked bewildered.
"But what has Aunt Tillie got to do with – with Hawk? She never knew anybody of that name."
"Probably not. It isn't a real name, of course."
"Then why should it frighten Mr. McGuire?" she asked logically.
Peter shook his head. All the props had fallen from under his theories.
"Whether it's real to McGuire or not is what I want to know. And I'm going to find out," he finished.
When they reached a path which cut through the trees toward the creek, Beth stopped, and held out her hand.
"I'm not goin' up to the house with you and I don't think I'll see Aunt Tillie just now," she said. "Good-by, Mr. – "
"Peter – ," he put in.
"Good-by, Mr. Peter."
"Just Peter – " he insisted.
"Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come again?"
"Yes. And I'm going to get you some music – "
"Singin' music?" she gasped.
He nodded.
"And you'll let me know if I can help – Aunt Tillie or you?"
She bobbed her head and was gone.
Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute and confidence that had ever been paid him – at least by a woman. A visit of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender.
The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else.
And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished, to conceal his warm admiration for her physical beauty. She had been very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him… Idealism? Perhaps. The same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them – that had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child – and one is always gentle with children.
He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous voice. He would have to develop it. He really would.
All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording. Blackmail? Probably. The "pronto" was significant. This message could hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs. Bergen? And if so, how and where had she known him without Beth's being aware of it? And why should Beth be involved in the danger?
Peter was slowly coming to the belief that there had been two men outside the house last night, "Hawk" and John Bray. And yet it seemed scarcely possible that the men on guard should not have seen the second man and that both men could have gotten away without leaving a trace. And where was the man with the black mustache? Was he John Bray? Impossible. It was all very perplexing. But here in his hand he held the tangible evidence of McGuire's fears. "You know what I've got and I know what you've got." The sentence seemed to have a cabalistic significance – a pact – a threat which each man held over the other. Perhaps it wasn't money only that "Hawk" wanted. Whatever it was, he meant to have it, and soon. The answer the man expected was apparently something well understood between himself and McGuire, better understood perhaps since the day McGuire had seen him in New York and had fled in terror to Sheldon, Senior's, office. And if McGuire didn't send the desired answer to the tree by Friday night, there would be the very devil to pay – if not "Hawk."
Peter was to be the bearer of ill tidings and with them, he knew, all prospect of a business discussion would vanish. The situation interested him, as all things mysterious must, and he could not forget that he was, for the present, part policeman, part detective; but forestry was his real job here and every day that passed meant so many fewer days in which to build the fire towers. And these he considered to be a prime necessity to the security of the estate.
He rolled the placard up and went toward the house. On the lawn he passed the young people, intent upon their own pursuits. He was glad that none of them noticed him and meeting Stryker, who was hovering around the lower hall, he sent his name up to his employer.
"I don't think Mr. McGuire expects you just yet, sir," said the man.
"Nevertheless, tell him I must see him," said Peter. "It's important."
Though it was nearly two o'clock, McGuire was not yet dressed and his looks when Peter was admitted to him bespoke a long night of anxiety and vigil. Wearing an incongruous flowered dressing gown tied at the waist with a silken cord, he turned to the visitor.
"Well," he said rather peevishly.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. McGuire, but something has happened that I thought – "
"What's happened?" the other man snapped out, eying the roll of cardboard in Peter's hand. "What – ?" he gasped.
Peter smiled and shrugged coolly.
"It may be only a joke, sir – and I hardly know whether I'm even justified in calling it to your attention, but I found this placard nailed to a tree near the path to the Cabin."
"Placard!" said McGuire, his sharp glance noting the printing of the trespass sign. "Of course – that's the usual warning – "
"It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure.
McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the extraordinary document were far from steady. The gay flowers of the dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred and turned slowly in the chair.
"You – you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly.
"Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire.
McGuire took the knife – twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A hasp-knife," he repeated dully.
"I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on account of – "
"Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on guard.
"If there's nothing else just now, I'll – "
"Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one else see this – this paper?"
"Yes – Mrs. Bergen's niece – she saw it first."
"My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?"
"I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written."
"Ah – " muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently. "Where – where is the tree on which you found it?"
"A maple – just in the wood – at the foot of the lawn."
"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author of them.
"G – d – you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.
"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.
McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It can't – be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He was showing his early breeding now.
"I might 'a' known – ," he said aloud, staring at the paper.
"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.
"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a woman read it?"
"Yes."
"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my affairs."
"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if there's anything I can do – "
McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening intently.
"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within call."
The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely bowed his head and obeyed.
"I suppose you're – you're curious about this message, Nichols – coming in such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.
"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."
"He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've got to put a stop to it – and to him."
"He speaks of coming again Friday night – "
"Yes – yes – Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard, "I've got to do what he wants – this time – just this time – "
McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,
"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I – I'll have to tell you more. I – I think – I'll need you – to help me."
Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the imminent revelations.
"I may say that – this – this 'Hawk' is a – an enemy of mine, Nichols – a bitter enemy – unscrupulous – a man better dead than alive. I – I wish to God you'd shot him last night."
"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.
"I – I've got to do what he wants – this time. I can't have this sort of thing goin' on – with everybody in Black Rock reading these damn things. You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?"
"I'd be pretty sure of that – "
"But she might – any time – if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further."
"I think you may trust me."
"Yes. I think I can. I've got to trust you now, whether I want to or no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very strange. It is strange. I knew this man – called 'Hawk,' many years ago. I – I thought he was dead, but he's come back."
McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which so clearly announced that fact.
"He speaks of something I've got – something he's got, Nichols. It's a paper – a – er – a partnership paper we drew up years ago – out West and signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it I – ," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds it as a – well – not exactly as a threat – but as a kind of menace to my happiness and Peggy's."
"I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short."
"Exactly – er – blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars – in New York. I refused him – there's no end to blackmail once you yield – and I came down here – but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him."
"If you were sure he had it with him – "
"That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere. I've got to get this money for him – from New York – I haven't got it in the house – before Friday night – "
"But blackmail – !"
"I've got to, Nichols – this time. I've got to."
"I wouldn't, sir," said Peter stoutly.
"But you don't know everything. I've only told you part," said McGuire, almost whining. "This is no ordinary case – no ordinary blackmail. I've got to be quick. I'm going to get the money – I'm going to get you to go to New York and get it."
"Me!"
"Yes. Yes. This is Wednesday. I can't take any chances of not having it here Friday. Peggy is going back this afternoon. I'll get her to drive you up. I'll 'phone Sheldon to expect you – he'll give you the money and you can come back to-morrow."
"But to-night – "
"He knows the danger of trying to reach me. That's why he wrote this. I won't be bothered to-night. I'll shut the house tight and put some of the men inside. If he comes, we'll shoot."
"But Friday – Do you mean, sir, that you'll go out to him with five thousand dollars and risk – "
"No, I won't. You will," said McGuire, watching Peter's face craftily.
"Oh, I see," replied Peter, aware that he was being drawn more deeply into the plot than he had wished. "You want me to meet him."
McGuire noted Peter's dubious tone and at once got up and laid his hands upon his shoulders.
"You'll do this for me, won't you, Nichols? I don't want to see this man. I can't explain. There wouldn't be any danger. He hasn't anything against you. Why should he have? I haven't any one else that I can trust – but Stryker. And Stryker – well – I'd have to tell Stryker. You know already. Don't say you refuse. It's – it's a proof of my confidence. You're just the man I want here. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me – well worth your while."
Peter was conscious of a feeling partly of pity, partly of contempt, for the cringing creature pawing at his shoulders. Peter had never liked to be pawed. It had always rubbed him the wrong way. But McGuire's need was great and pity won.
"Oh, I'll do it if you like," he said, turning aside and releasing himself from the clinging fingers, "provided I assume no responsibility – "
"That's it. No responsibility," said McGuire, in a tone of relief. "You'll just take that money out – then come away – "
"And get nothing in return?" asked Peter in surprise. "No paper – no receipt – ?"
"No – just this once, Nichols. It will keep him quiet for a month or so. In the meanwhile – " The old man paused, a crafty look in his eyes, "In the meanwhile we'll have time to devise a way to meet this situation."
"Meaning – precisely what?" asked Peter keenly.
McGuire scowled at him and then turned away toward the window.
"That needn't be your affair."
"It won't be," said Peter quickly. "I'd like you to remember that I came here as a forester and superintendent. I agreed also to guard your house and yourself from intrusion, but if it comes to the point of – "
"There, there, Nichols," croaked McGuire, "don't fly off the handle. We'll just cross this bridge first. I – I won't ask you to do anything a – a gentleman shouldn't."
"Oh, well, sir," said Peter finally, "that's fair enough."
McGuire came over and faced Peter, his watery eyes seeking Peter's.
"You'll swear, Nichols, to say nothing of this to any one?"
"Yes. I'll keep silent."
"Nothing to Sheldon?"
"No."
"And you'll see this – this niece of the housekeeper's?"
"Yes."
The man gave a gasp of relief and sank into his chair.
"Now go, Nichols – and shift your clothes. Peggy's going about four. Come back here and I'll give you a letter and a check."
Peter nodded and reached the door. As he opened it, Stryker straightened and bowed uncomfortably. But Peter knew that he had been listening at the keyhole.
