“You shut up! It’s none o’ yer business,” returned the angry servant. “I want my property. Have ya got it hid somewhere? You produce it mighty good an’ quick, or I’ll show ya where ta get off. You’re nothin’ but a kid that nobody cares anything about anyways. Get outta my way!” And he lurched toward Rannie threateningly.
Rannie waited long enough to buck his head down and back, tossing his forelock out of his eyes, while his fingers, with one swift movement, gathered the silk tassels of his loud bathrobe and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he made a quick dive straight into the knees of the butler, toppled him neatly and unexpectedly onto the floor, and calmly sat down on his chest, pinioning the arms of the drunken man in a fierce young practiced grip that was like iron.
“What’s all this?” demanded Rannie’s father, suddenly appearing on the scene.
“Tie ’is feet up, Dad!” directed Rannie calmly, tossing his long locks out of his eyes. “He’s half stewed. He ain’t fit ta have round.” And then to his sister, who had only waited to turn off the gas under her cooking and flown back to the scene of action, “Chris, you call up that policeman again and get him ta remove the debris so I can get dressed. Good night! This is some household, I’ll say! Dad, han’ me that towel on the rack there in the bathroom. I gotta tie this sucker’s hands.”
Christobel cast one glance at the prostrate Hawkins and flew to the telephone.
“But Rannie,” said the father as he lost no time in securing the towels, “what’s happened? Are you sure—?”
“Tie those feet first!” yelled Rannie. “Talk afterward.”
Mr. Kershaw stooped and tied a firm knot about the kicking feet, then straightened up, as Hawkins suddenly lifted up his voice and screamed, “Help! Help! Murder!”
“He’s half stewed, Dad,” said Rannie calmly from the breast of the struggling man. “Can that noise, Hawkins. You won’t get anywhere doing that! Dad, he pulled a gun on me. See! There it is over there in that corner. Doncha touch it, Dad. Ya might wanna get the fingerprints. Say, Dad, you certainly had one buncha crooks running the house!”
In amazement, the father stood over his young roughneck son and watched his strong young hands tie the knots firmly. His boisterous child could do something, it seemed, even if he was always in trouble in the school where he had spent his last four years.
“But I don’t understand!” said the father, bewildered. “Do you mean that he tried to shoot you?”
Then there arose a protest from the half-sobered butler, who looked anything but dignified, lying there in front of his bedroom door.
“Nothing like that, Mr. Kershaw,” protested Hawkins. “I was just putting the gun in me other pocket. It’s not loaded at all. Just look in it an’ see!”
“Doncha touch it, Dad. Wait’ll the cop comes.”
Where did this young man get the worldly wisdom to be so cautious, the father wondered in passing. He had no idea how many mystery stories Rannie had absorbed within the covers of his algebra and Latin grammar during study hours. Rannie was well versed in all the techniques of crime, even if he couldn’t pass in Latin and mathematics.
“It’s not necessary to send for the police, Mr. Kershaw,” proclaimed the prostrate butler now, in his most butlerish tones, trying to be convincing, with well-feigned dignity. “If you’ll just persuade this crazy kid ta let me up, I’ll open the gun meself an’ let ya see it. It’s only an old gun I carry fer self-defense, sir, but I never carry nothing but the gun, sir. It’s only a fake, sir.”
“Lie still!” commanded the master of the house.
“Indeed, sir, yer only making trouble fer yerself,” pleaded the butler. “I’ll be obligated ta sue ya fer this ef ya don’t let me up before the police comes. I’ve done nothing at all but come up seeking me own property, and I found it gawn! It’s me that should send the police fer you, Mr. Kershaw, taking a honest man’s clothes outta his room and making a clean sweep of it. Not a thing left. Just tell me what have you done with me clothes an’ I’ll pack them up an’ get outta yer house. I never was treated like this in a place before. I tuk ya fer a gentleman, Mr. Kershaw.”
“Yes?” said the master. “And I took you for an honest servant, but I found out I was mistaken.”
“I’m as honest a man as you’ll find,” said the butler fervently. “Call yer parlormaid. She’ll tell ya. She’s known me since she was a small child. Call Mrs. Kershaw’s maid, Marie. She’s me own niece.”
“Unfortunately, they do not happen to be within calling distance,” said Kershaw, noticing with satisfaction that a pair of heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs.
Then two big policemen who had been there the night before came tramping down the hall and stood at Hawkins’ feet, and the honest butler quailed as he met their eyes.
“Oh, there you are, McBride,” said Kershaw. “Thanks for coming so soon. We’re not needing this man’s services here any longer; perhaps you can relieve us of his custody. You’ll find his baggage down in the servants’ dining room, minus a good deal of the family silverware, which he had carefully stowed among his effects. I thought I’d just look around a little last night before he returned, and discovered that he had not been letting the grass grow under his feet while he was with us. He’s been in the house only about a fortnight, but I imagine we’ll find there are other things missing when I get a chance to look over the list of things that are out of the bank. I haven’t investigated further yet. Of course, if the man can return what he has taken away, it would go easier for him,” he added with a knowing look.
The officers nodded gravely and bent to snap the handcuffs on their prisoner.
Rannie, released from his position on Hawkins’ chest, rose and pointed to the gun in the corner.
“Better take that with ya,” he said with a boyish swagger. “He says it wasn’t loaded, but it hasn’t been touched yet. He pulled it on me just before I lunged at him, but when he fell it slid over there.”
The officer gave the boy a keen look, another at the gun, a swift glance around to reconstruct the scene as it must have been enacted, and then pulled out a big handkerchief and picked up the gun with it. Carefully, he opened the gun and showed them a bullet inside, and without further word he folded the gun back in his handkerchief, slipped it in his pocket, and walked his prisoner away to the car waiting at the door.
With the sound of the closing front door, the three who stood not far apart in the entrance to the servants’ hall drew sighs of relief.
Then Rannie, with a voice of patronizing admonition, addressed his father.
“Doncha realize what that guy was trying to do, Dad?” he said with the air of a wise parent addressing a small child. “He wanted ya ta pick up that gun and get yer fingerprints on it, an’ then he was figurin’ ta try an’ prove that you pulled the gun on him, see?”
His father smiled a weary, half-amused smile.
“I guess so, Sonnie,” he said, “but what I want to know is, how many times a week did you go to the movies while you have been in school, and just what kind of mystery stories have you been reading? I wonder if that won’t account for some of the complaints I’ve been having about you lately?”
Randall’s face grew suddenly red.
“Aw, well, if that’s how ya feel about it I wish I’d let the poor fish get away with it,” he said in quick anger.
“No, Rannie, you did good work,” said his father. “I was glad to see you were no coward. You certainly were equal to the occasion. I was just wishing you could bring the same keen alert action to your schoolwork that you did to getting Hawkins tied up. That’s all. Think about it, kid.”
Rannie dug the toe of his bedroom slipper into the hall carpet and looked sullen.
Christobel came out from hiding behind the swing door.
“Well, that’s all of them, anyway!” she said with a deep breath of relief. “There can’t be any more people coming in with keys.”
“Not exactly all,” said Kershaw thoughtfull
y. “The chauffeur hasn’t been heard from yet. I wonder—” He walked to the back window and looked out toward the garage.
“I don’t think he had a key to the house,” he said meditatively, “but there’s no telling!” A frown gathered on his brow. “I guess the whole bunch are a crooked lot. They probably figured that nobody would be watching last night and they could get away with almost anything. They are probably all lined up together. I should have told the police to search the garage. The chauffeur sleeps there, and no telling what he’s got stowed away handy to take with him. I guess I’d better put it in the hands of the police right now before we have any more unpleasant experiences.”
But as he was starting toward the telephone, it rang.
The brother and sister stood together listening, all excited about what might be going to happen next. They heard their father’s quick sharp questions. “Who? … Where is he? … Which hospital? … What car was it? … You don’t say! … You say it was all smashed up? … You say you have what is left of it? … What? … Liquor? … You don’t say! … Not to my knowledge! … You say he was not killed? … Seriously injured? … Yes, I’ll be down inside of an hour…. Yes…. Thank you for calling, Chief.”
He hung up the receiver and turned back to the children.
“Well, you won’t be troubled by the chauffeur coming in on you this morning!” he said, trying to make light of it. “He took a joyride last night with a cargo of liquor on board. I guess he and the car were both pretty well tanked up from what they say. He went over the stone wall just above Dybert’s curve, broke his leg and an arm or two, sustained a few other minor troubles like concussion, and incidentally smashed up the new limousine that Charmian had just bought. We certainly have made a clean sweep of it so far as servants are concerned.”
He stood there for a moment looking down at the floor, his lips closing in a thin line that seemed to speak volumes if one could only understand. Of course his children sensed it, but they did not know that he was going back a few weeks to the time of the hiring of these new servants, and remembering how he had protested against it. Charmian had turned away tried-and-true servants for these because she said they were more up to date, complaining that the others did not understand the requirements of the service of the day.
Well, Charmian was gone, with all her mistakes. It was no use to grow angry over what might have been. He turned with another of those deep sighs that so wrung Christobel’s heart.
“Well, Rannie, get your clothes on and let’s go out somewhere and get breakfast. Hurry up, Son.”
“Breakfast is all ready,” declared Christobel triumphantly.
“Ready? Why, who got it?”
“I did!” said Christobel with sparkling eyes. “Only I’m afraid it’s all cold by this time.”
“Why, you great little girl you!” said her father, stooping to kiss her forehead and for a moment losing that careworn expression that had become almost habitual with him.
“Hurry, Rannie!” Christobel called happily. “I’ll go down and get it on the table!” As she ran lightly down the stairs, the cloud of gloom and heaviness seemed to her to lift from the big alien house.
Christobel lighted the gas and the cereal began to bubble once more. She connected the toaster, putting in another set of bread slices. It seemed a really happy moment when her father and brother walked into the kitchen.
They all ate as if it were a picnic, and lingered, hating to break up the pleasant family feeling. But presently, after there could no longer be any excuse for sitting there, the father drew back his chair.
“Now, I’ve got to go to the police station and get this gang off my mind. Then I’ll go attend to that car business. I may even have to go to the hospital and see that slippery chauffeur. What are you two going to do to amuse yourselves?”
“Aw, Dad! I’m going with you!” said Rannie, rising determinedly. “That’s where I belong!”
“But your sister doesn’t want to go to the station house. It’s no place for her, and I don’t exactly like to leave her alone in this great house. No telling how many friends that crooked bunch have who might come snooping round.”
“I’m not afraid, Father,” said Christobel gravely, giving a quick, fearful glance around the big kitchen. “I’ve got these dishes to put away and those clothes to pack, you know.” And she half shuddered at the thought of going into the departed Charmian’s private room alone. It was silly, of course, but it seemed a terrible task. Something of the feeling that had come over her in that white velvet reception room began to settle down over her spirit now. She had a feeling that Charmian would not like her to be having her way in this big house that had belonged to her. So it was a great relief when her father spoke.
“No,” he said decidedly, “you’re not to stay here alone. We’ve got to get someone to stay with you. What if you call up Mrs. Romayne? She has offered to do anything for you that you want. I know she will be entirely willing.”
Christobel caught her breath and felt her blood rushing away from her lips and cheeks back into her heart in a wild throbbing. Distress showed plainly on her face.
“Oh, no, Father dear!” she pleaded. “I—she—I would much, much rather be alone. Please don’t worry about me. I shall be quite all right. I’ll telephone the police station,” she added, forcing a laugh, “if I get scared.”
“Well, of course there is really nothing to be afraid of, and we’ll be back soon.”
She saw them depart with a sinking heart but kept a good show of courage till they were gone. Then she hurried to the kitchen, pulled down the shade so that nobody could look in on her, and flew to work. Her small experience did not make the task easy, but she managed to get the dishes washed and the things put away, and then with a quick glance around, she fled upstairs.
Her intention was to go straight to Charmian’s room and fold those clothes as fast as she could and get them in piles ready to pack away or send away somehow.
She paused at the front hall window for a moment, trying to still the wild beating of her heart before she opened the door to Charmian’s apartment, for it somehow seemed to her that she would meet again the dead face of Charmian when she went in there alone, and the thought was not pleasant. There was nothing to be afraid of, of course, but she could not get away from the feeling.
As she stood there looking out into the street, she saw a disreputable-looking man walking up and down the opposite side of the street looking furtively toward the house, then turning and looking again; and while she stood there watching, the doorbell rang. She could hear the sound all through the big empty house, and her heart went up in her throat.
She drew back out of sight of the man who had now stopped and was looking across to the door.
And then the telephone rang in her father’s room.
Chapter 6
Christobel stood there with her hand on her heart, shrunk back into the corner of the hall, and wondered for an instant what she ought to do.
Death seemed to hover like a pall in the room across the hall, some unknown horror was perhaps down at the front door, and the telephone offered another possibility from which she shrank.
Suddenly it seemed as if she must drop down in a heap on the floor and cry. In one frenzied thought came the dull monotony of the past years in her dreary boarding school life. How she had chafed under the alienation from Father and home; how she had longed to be out in the world and living a normal girl’s life. And now here she was, suddenly plunged into all kinds of tragedy, and her frightened unaccustomed soul quivered in indecision.
But Christobel was made of sterner stuff than just a silly child. She had unusually good common sense, and she commanded her trembling limbs to obey her and forced herself to go to her father’s room and answer that telephone. For it had occurred to her that it might even be her father calling, and if so, she would tell him about that tramp across the street and ask if she should answer the door.
But when she took down the rece
iver and forced her shaking voice to speak, it was a woman’s honeyed voice that answered her. And though it was not any threatening servant, nor the strange, frightening voice of a possible burglar, the voice she heard filled her with a far more subtle horror than any of her other fears made tangible would have done.
“Is that you, Christobel, darling?” the voice asked, and Christobel darling knew it as the voice of her caller of the evening before.
“This is Miss Kershaw!” she said coolly and had to take a deep breath to keep her voice from shaking. It seemed to her that her heart was turning to ice. It was all the worse that her father had suggested that this woman come and stay with her. It seemed so inevitable that somehow, somewhere, eventually, this woman was going to get her—to get her father away from her—and come into her life like another terrible cloud.
“Oh, you darling! How cunning that sounds!” gurgled the woman on the telephone, and somehow Christobel fancied she could almost smell the lazy perfume that she wore, even across the wire. She waited in silence.
“I guess you know who this is, don’t you, darling Christobel?” said the obnoxious voice.
The girl could manage nothing but a frigid little, “I beg your pardon?”
“I said I guess you know who I am,” said the sweet voice. “I’m Mrs. Romayne, dear. I thought you would recognize my voice.”
“Oh!” said Christobel, trying desperately to think how to answer in a way that would get rid of the woman before her father came and yet not be so impolite that her father would be angry with her. “Oh, Mrs. Romayne! You are the lady who called last evening when Father was away?”
“There! Of course I knew you would know me!” gurgled the lady sweetly. “And I called again last evening and talked with your father. Didn’t he tell you?”