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THE REST HOLLOW MYSTERY
BY REBECCA N. PORTER
NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1922
Copyright, 1922, by THE CENTURY CO.
Printed in U. S. A.
TO MY BROTHER WILLIAM STRATTON PORTER
That ideal reader of mystery stories--with the ardor to pursue, the faith to believe and the magnanimity to guess wrong
THE REST HOLLOW MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
Kenwick himself had no recollection of the accident. But he knew thatthere must have been one, for when he recovered consciousness, hisclothes were full of burrs, his hat was badly crushed, and there was aviolent throbbing in one of his legs.
With both hands gripping the aching thigh in a futile effort to sootheits pain, he dragged himself into the clearing and looked about. It wasone of those narrow, wooded mountain ravines that in the West areclassed as canons. Back of him rose a succession of sage-covered slopes,bleak, wintry, hostile. In front was a precipitous cliff studded withdwarf madrone trees and the twisted manzanita. Overhead the baredistorted sycamore boughs lashed themselves together and moaned a drearymonotone to the accompaniment of a keen November wind. No sign of autumnlingered on the landscape, and the shed leaves formed a moldy carpetunderfoot. The canon was redolent with the odor of damp timber anddecaying vegetation.
Kenwick buttoned his heavy overcoat about him and limped painfullytoward the cliff, keeping as nearly as possible a straight line from hisstarting-point. Although his surroundings were totally unfamiliar hismind was clear. But he had that curious sensation of a man who has sleptall night in a strange bed, and in the first moment of wakening isunable to adjust himself to his environment. While he groped his waythrough the tangled underbrush his memory struggled to clear a passageback to the present.
At the foot of the cliff he stopped short, staring in horror at a spot afew paces ahead of him. A scrub madrone had been torn from the side ofthe ravine and had fallen to the bottom of the canon, its mutilatedroots stretching skyward like the grotesque claws of some prehistoricanimal. The force which had torn it from its moorings had scarred theslope with other evidences of disaster; a limb lopped off here, a massof brush ripped away there. A glistening object caught his eye. Hestooped laboriously and picked it up, then dropped it, shuddering. Itwas a triangle of broken glass spattered with blood.
For half an hour he poked around in the brush searching for, yetdreading to find, a more gruesome object. Perhaps the driver had notbeen killed after all, he reassured himself. As he dimly remembered him,he was a friendly sort of fellow whom he had engaged to drive him out tothe Raeburn place. As he climbed the steep hill now Kenwick tried toremember what they had been talking about just before this thinghappened, but the effort made his head ache and landed him nowhere. Amore vital conjecture was concerned with how long he had been lying atthe foot of the ravine and why no one had come to his rescue.
When he gained the road there was nobody in sight. It was a splendidlypaved bit of country boulevard curving out of sight into what Kenwicktold himself must be the land of dreams and romance. He turned to theleft and started to walk, aimlessly, hopping part of the time to savehis aching leg. Surely some one would overtake him in a car soon andoffer assistance. He had dragged himself over half a mile, stimulated bythis hope, when he sighted a house set far back from the highway behinda vista of date-palms. He struggled up to the entrance and gazed throughthe bars of a tall iron gate. It was locked. And, as an extraprecaution against intrusion, a heavy iron chain was swung across theoutside. Through the trees the house was plainly visible, a colossalconcrete structure with stone trimmings flanked on one side by a sturdycombination tank-house and garage. About the whole place there was anaristocratic, exclusive dignity that reminded Kenwick of one of thegreat English estates that he had once visited during a convalescentfurlough spent near London. It was more like a castle than a privateresidence, with its high stone wall covered by dank clinging vines. Thevery trees that bordered the driveway had an air of aloofness as thoughthey had severed all relationship with the rest of nature's family. Itwas inconceivable, Kenwick told himself, that guests had ever beenentertained, unbidden, in that mansion. And yet it was here that he mustapply for help.
Strength had deserted him. Courage had deserted him. Even self-respectwas fast slipping away. Desperation alone remained; desperation lashedalmost to fury by the agony in his throbbing leg. He or his companionmust have been drunk, hideously drunk, to have met with such amischance. And yet where could they have purchased a drink? He himselfhated liquor, and he had no recollection of having been persuaded intoillicit conviviality. As he searched for an opening in the stone wall,he took hasty stock of himself. The fur-collared overcoat would give hima certain social status in the eyes of this householder. His hat, thoughbearing the mark of riotous adventure, was obviously the hat of agentleman. His shoes subscribed liberally to this classification and hisdark broadcloth suit was conclusive. He felt in his pocket. There wasneither watch nor money. But he could mention Raeburn's name. Thewealthy New Yorker who was to have been his host undoubtedly stood highin this community.
His search along the wall brought him at last to a broken ledge of rockwhich might serve as a stepping-stone. He drew in his breath sharply,dreading the pain of the stupendous effort that he was about to make.Then he placed his sound foot on the ledge and dragged himself over theenclosure.
If the place had looked inhospitable from the outside it was even moreformidable viewed from within. Only that portion of the acreage whichimmediately surrounded the house was under cultivation. On either sideof this a wide expanse of eucalyptus forest sloped away from the road.They were half-grown saplings and the blue-gray of their foliage blendedwith subtle harmony into the somber winter landscape.
"Lord! What a lonely spot!" Kenwick muttered as he followed the drivewayaround to the side of the house. "Good God! Anything could happen in aplace like this!"
The shallow stone steps echoed beneath his feet, and the door-bell,tinkling in some remote region, gave back a ghostly, deserted sound. Twomore trials with the electric button convinced Kenwick that the placewas untenanted. He made a shade of his two hands and peered into theplate-glass window that gave on the front porch.
What he saw was an elegantly appointed dining-room furnished in oldmahogany and dull blue hangings. There were carved candlesticks on thesideboard, and in the center of the bare dining-table a cut-glass bowlfull of English walnuts. The somber high-backed chairs ranged along thewall seemed to the man outside to be guarding the room like a body ofsolemn gendarmes. Slowly he turned, descended the shallow steps, andstarted around to the rear of the house. There must be some servant, hereasoned, some caretaker or gardener who could administer temporaryrelief and direct him to his destination. The ache in his leg wasbecoming unbearable. It was impossible for him to go on unaided. Howeverreluctant this exclusive home might be to admit a stranger within itsgates, it must conform to the laws of decency and bind up his wounds.
On the side path, bordered with monster oleanders and dusty miller, hestopped. The door of the garage was open. It seemed safe to assume thatthe chauffeur or caretaker lived in the commodious quarters overhead.Hope glimmered at last through the night of black despair. Almost blindwith pain now Kenwick staggered toward that open door. In the dim lightof late afternoon he made out a small room filled with garden tools.Beyond, through an inside window, was revealed a handsome blacklimousi
ne standing motionless in the gathering darkness.
But the building was deserted. It was when he realized this that thedusk suddenly enveloped the man peering desperately in at the threshold.Through a bleak mist he saw the lawn-mower, garden hose, andbeetle-black car dance together in hideous nightmare. And then the roomfull of garden tools rushed toward him. He felt the wheels of thatsinister black car grinding into his neck, and he knew no more.