Chapter VII

The Chief and I—Make a Call

It is said that a person drowning has all the events of his life pass before him. I do not know if that is true or not; but in the brief second in which I was falling through space I had but one thought—how foolish I had been to have ever climbed those tower stairs. The thought must have come and gone in a mere flash of time, but it seemed long enough for me to reflect over. Then, with a crash and a jar which seemed to shake every bone in my body, I struck the roof. Struck the roof and started to roll down its side.

Luckily, there was not a very steep pitch to the roof, and I managed to stop my slide just as I reached the eaves. Aching in every part of my body, I pulled myself into a sitting position and gave a cautious look around. Above me was the tower, and I thanked my stars that the height was only about six feet. If I had fallen several feet from where I did, I would not have stopped until I reached the ground. And there is no doubt I would have been killed. As it was, it seemed a miracle that I had not broken any bones. For though I was pretty sore from the fall, I decided there was nothing else the matter.

But my position was far from enviable. I was sitting on the very edge of the roof between the church and the rectory, about thirty feet from the ground. The pitch of the roof was not so steep but what I could climb it, but that would do me no particular good. Above me was the roof of the house, and I remembered that I had seen a light in the rectory as I came across the lawn. There must be some sort of an arrangement to reach the roof through the rectory attic. I decided to try and find it.

Carefully I edged myself along and began to climb over the smooth expanse of the rectory shingles. Though they were slippery, yet the pitch was the same as that of the church, and I had no difficulty. Halfway up the roof I found what I had expected—an opening into the attic. But when I had seated myself on the wooden hatch, I was no better off than before. It was locked, and I was unable to open it.

Sitting there for a few moments, I tried to puzzle out what I should do next. I did not intend to spend the night on the roof if I could help it, and yet there did not seem to be any way down to the ground. Then I began to bang on the covered opening—banging with my feet, pounding and pounding. I would do this for a moment, then wait, only to bang again. Just as I was about ready to give up hope I heard footsteps in the attic, and a very surprised voice cried in a muffled tone:

“What's that?”

I yelled out that I was on the roof and climbed off the cover of the trap door. In a moment it was slowly lifted, and, looking through the opening, I saw the rather startled face of the minister. I drew myself to the edge and dropped at his surprised feet on the attic floor. As I straightened up, I saw his eyes sweep over me, and they grew very wide as he gasped:

“Good heavens! it's Mr. Pelt.”

I must have been a rather sorry-looking object. The branches of the trees through which I had pushed my way while in the swamp had torn my clothes. One leg of my trousers flapped to and fro as I moved. I was covered with dirt, while my shoes were a mass of mud. My face, which his eyes gazed upon in amazement, must have been a sight, for after one look he exclaimed:

“What has happened to you, Mr. Pelt? And—and, why were you on my roof?”

I started to explain, when, remembering his duties, he begged me to come down in his library. I followed him down the attic steps to the first floor, where we went into a room lined with books. He motioned to a chair, excused himself and left the room. In a moment he returned, bringing with him a bottle and a glass. As he poured out the wine, he said he thought I needed it, and then, dropping into a chair, watched me while I drank.

His eyes were very curious, yet he was too well bred to ask me what had happened. Placing the glass on the near-by table, I told him briefly of what had taken place. My visit to the swamp I passed over lightly, but did tell of seeing a man run through Carter's hedge, and how I had followed him. As I told of the sudden attack upon the roof of his tower, and how I was thrown over the side, he gave a gesture of horror.

“Heavens, man!” he said, “some one tried to kill you.”

I agreed to this, and there fell a silence. He broke it to say that there was nothing unusual in the door of the tower being open. In fact it was never locked, the village people using it for a place from which to give their visitors a view of the lake. But to hear that which had happened to me should have taken place upon his property shocked him. His dark eyes never left my face as he expressed again and again his horror. I could see that from his point of view the whole thing was unexplainable.

He told me he had been reading, and he pointed out where he had thrown his book when he heard the sound of my pounding on the roof. He half laughed as he said that for a moment he was a very astonished man. He could hear some kind of a banging overhead, and at last went up the steps to the attic. There he was startled to discover that the sound came from the roof. When he heard my voice, he thought for a moment the boys of the village were playing some sort of a prank.

The clock suddenly striking eleven roused me to the lateness of the hour. With a little exclamation of pain at the stiffness of my muscles I rose to my feet saying that I had better be going. He went with me to the door, then out upon the lawn. There we both turned and looked at the tower, which loomed above our heads. Saying “good night,” I went rather slowly across the grass, through the opening in the hedge, and over Carter's lawn.

The large living room was a blaze of light, and I went up the steps and into the house. Carter and Ranville were sitting in two large chairs talking very earnestly. It was the Englishman who saw me first, and I half laughed as I saw his eyes sweep over my disheveled figure and his jaw drop. Catching Ranville's expression, Carter turned to see what he was looking at. Giving me one amazed look, he rose to his feet and came over in my direction.

“In the name of God, Pelt, what have you been doing?” was his shocked question.

I dropped into a chair and told him a drink of Scotch would be very agreeable. With one look at my face he hurried out of the room. In a second he returned with a bottle and, placing it on a stand, took three glasses from his pocket. Ranville's eyes wore a questioning look, but he made no inquiries until I had finished my drink. Even then it was Carter who broke out:

“What happened, Pelt.”

Going into a long account of my experiences, I told them of the visit of the boy and my trip to the swamp. They said nothing until I spoke of the attack which had been made on me in the tower, and how the man had tried to throw me off the top. Here Ranville broke in to say dryly that from my looks he judged the man had succeeded. I nodded, and then told how I had struck the roof, and that the minister had let me into his house through the opening in his attic.

When I had finished, Carter was silent a moment, then jumped to his feet and left the room. Ranville poured me out another drink, took a small one for himself and said:

“You struck something to-night, Pelt, but what it was I would give a good deal to know.”

Shaking my head, I sank back in the chair. All at once I realized how tired I was, and that I was terribly sore. Every bone in my body seemed to be aching, and each time I moved I found a new sore spot. My eyes fell on my suit—stained by the grass and smeared with dirt. But for the time being I was too tired to go to my room and change.

When Carter returned, he came to my side and said:

“I just got hold of the chief, Pelt. It struck me that if there is anything in the swamp, the chief better see that no one gets it before the police do. I told him what the boy said to you—how he saw some one throw something away. He says that he has not been to the station to-night, and so does not know if the boy went down, as you told him to.”

He paused and went on. “I told him just a wee bit about what you saw, suggesting he have a couple of men by the swamp to-night in case the man goes back. He is going to do that.”

He gave me another look, and at my expression half laughed. Then he said:

“What you need, Pelt, is a warm bath and a good night's rest. You are pretty lucky not to have been killed; and after this we'd better not let you go around alone.”

His suggestion of a bath was a good one, and they followed me to my room and bade me good night. After I had turned on the water in the tub I glanced at myself in the wall mirror. I was a sorry object, and when I saw my face, I could not blame Carter for smiling. There was a great streak of dirt across my cheek, and a large bruise over one eye; my hair was a tangled mass. When I turned away from the glass, I remembered my hat was still on the roof of the church.

I looked myself over pretty well after I undressed and decided that, save for several bruises, I was unharmed, True, I was very sore, but the warm water would aid that. After staying in the water for a long while, I rubbed myself well with alcohol, and crept between the sheets of the bed. I gave a sigh of contentment as my tired body felt the cool linen. For a while I tried to puzzle out all that had taken place—tried, only to give it up as sleep crept down upon me. Then with a sigh I turned over and knew no more.

It was long after ten when I went down to the dining room the next morning. As I took my place at the breakfast table, the housekeeper handed me a note saying that Carter had left it. It simply announced that both he and Ranville had gone to Warren's funeral, and they thought they would let me sleep. Breakfast over, I strolled out on the lawn and for a while amused myself by playing ball with the dog. Tiring of this after a while, I went up on the veranda to read a magazine.

I had been reading perhaps about ten minutes when I was hailed by a voice from the walk and, glancing down, I saw the heavy, thick-set figure of the chief of police. He came up the steps and dropped into a near-by chair, wiping his face with his handkerchief as if he was warm. Under one arm he had a small package which he was handling very carefully. For a while we talked in a general way, until I began to wonder what it might be that had caused him to come to the house.

At length, after taking a pipe from his pocket and which he took some time in filling, he said:

“Well, Mr. Pelt, I understand that you are with one of the best detectives in the country.”

I agreed to this, and he went on:

“I have something here might interest you.”

He took the package from under his arm and slowly but very carefully unwrapped it. There seemed to be far more paper used in wrapping than was necessary, but at length he reached the object he was after. Giving it one rather strange look, he handed it to me without a word. It was a dagger of a style and workmanship which I had never seen before. The blade was very long and extremely thin, and it came to a decidedly sharp point—a point which not only was sharp, but also very clean; the steel of which it was made was glazed a dark green, and the handle had several figures carved upon it.

After I had looked it over I gave him a questioning glance. His response was quick:

“After Mr. Carter called me last night I sent two men round to Warren's. Had them watch that swamp all night. They saw no one. This morning I got a lot of boys and set them to work. They went all over the place—that's what they found,” and he waved one hand at the dagger.

I cast another glance at the dagger, wondering if it could have been the thing the boy said he saw the man on the wall throwing away. As if reading my thoughts, the chief said:

“The doc saw this awhile ago. He thinks it's the knife that did the killing.”

Realizing that the chief did not know all of my adventure of the night before, I told him of what had taken place. He seemed very startled, but then I knew that the murder itself had been a bit more than he was accustomed to. He listened, however, without a word, though he did slowly shake his head when I told of seeing the man who was searching in the swamp. But when I mentioned of being thrown from the tower of the church, he gave a sudden start. As I ended, he said quickly:

“You know, Mr. Pelt, this murder, of course, upsets me. We don't have many crimes that amount to anything here. My work is mostly small stuff. But this murder sort of gets me. To start with, Warren was the biggest man in this place. I can't for the life of me think of any reason why any one should bump him off.”

I made no reply to this, studying the man before me. There was something likable about the chief—something about the humorous smile he had that caused me to warm to him. But his face was puzzled, and it was clear to see he was, as he put it, upset. I could readily understand that the murder of the most important man in his town would cause him to realize the responsibilities resting upon his shoulders. Our eyes suddenly met and, throwing out his hands in a gesture of appeal, he said: “You know, Mr. Pelt, this murder is a little too deep for me. I wish you could see your way clear to help me a bit.”

I assured him I would be glad to do anything within my power, but warned him that most of the work upon criminal cases which I had been in had been done by Bartley. He listened with a serious air, and when I finished remarked:

“That's all right; but you can help me, I know. Now I have been thinking. You heard what Warren's housekeeper said yesterday about that girl. How she said he ought to be killed.”

He paused as if refreshing his memory, then burst forth:

“That's a hell of a thing for a nice girl to say. But the thing I have got to do now is to find her. I had two of the cops out, but they can't find any one who has even seen her. Now I was thinking, perhaps you would go with me to see her aunt. She ought to know something about the girl. One of the boys asked the aunt last night if she knew where she was, and she said, ‘No.’ But she might give us some idea. What do you say?”

There was an appealing look on his face as he glanced at me, and I was willing to agree that the aunt should be questioned. Upon asking him when he wanted to go, he said: “At once,” and I told him that if he would wait until I found my hat, I would go with him. The hat found, we went down the steps, and he started for the road, saying that his Ford was standing there. I told him I thought we might go in more comfort in my car and, going to the garage, drove it out to the road. The Airedale jumped into the seat as I stopped for the chief, and as there was plenty of room, I let him stay.

It took us at least fifteen minutes to reach the house before which we stopped. It was a small white place set far back from the street, with a white fence before it. The path we went up was lined with flowers, and roses climbed over the doorway of the house. It was a very pleasant old lady who answered our ringing of the bell—an old lady whose smile turned into an anxious look as she perceived the chief.

She led us into an old-fashioned parlor of the sort I had not seen for years. The haircloth furniture was of a beautiful design, and the old prints upon the wall took me back to my boyhood days in New England. Motioning us to a chair, she seated herself, with a very anxious look upon her face. Then, without waiting for the chief to tell his errand, she asked in a trembling voice:

“I hope you have not heard anything bad about Florence?”

The chief shook his head. “No, Mrs. West,” he replied. “I don't know anything bad about her. But I wanted to ask you some questions. You see we don't know where Florence is, and so far I can't find any one who does. Now, did she come to your house yesterday afternoon?”

The woman was rocking back and forth in her chair. When she answered, I could tell she was worried.

“No,” came the reply. “I have not seen her for several days. You know when she got that position with Mr. Warren, she had to stay at his house. She said he often had her work at night, and it was too far to come back here. She did run in every day or so, but I have not seen her for at least three days. And then—” she paused as if shocked by what she was going to add, then said: “And then I heard about her saying that Mr. Warren ought to be killed.”

The face of the old lady was flushed, but the expression was more one of perplexity than anything else. Her eyes did not leave the chief's face.

“You know, of course, that, though Florence was a very impulsive girl, she was a good girl,” she added proudly.

The chief nodded, and the aunt continued:

“Now I thought Florence just said that—that about Mr. Warren being killed, because she was mad over something. She would not have meant it, would she?”

Her eyes met the chief's imploringly. He shifted his heavy weight and then with a sheepish expression remarked: “No—but then, Mrs. West, why did she take her suit case and say she was not coming back? Where did she go? That's what I want to know.”

To this the woman could give no reply. There was no doubt she was very much puzzled over what had happened to her niece. But at the same time she was sure the girl was all right. As to any place that she might have gone, she did not know. She added that her niece was a girl who did not go out, as she put it, very much, and that she had no idea where she might be.

We were just on the verge of leaving when I asked her if she knew of any young man she went around with. Her reply was that Florence did not care much for young men; but in a moment she mentioned a Robert Hunt with whom she once in a while went to dances. At the name I shot a glance at the chief to see if he knew the man.

He nodded. “I know him. That's the young man who is studying law in Judge Thompson's law office. A fine young fellow.”

The aunt informed us that occasionally the young man came to the house to see Florence and took her to dances. But he seemed to be the only young man with whom the girl had anything to do, for the old lady could not think of any other person the girl had been interested in, and with this we left.

I dropped the chief in front of Carter's. Leaving the car in the drive, I went into the house to be greeted by the two men with the news that lunch was ready. As we went into the dining room, they asked me how I felt after my night's escapade, and grinned a little when I told them I was a little sore. Then as we seated ourselves at the table, I told them of the visit of the chief and of the finding of the dagger. They made hardly any comment, though Ranville said he wanted to have a look at the weapon.

During the lunch they told me about the funeral. Not only had it been largely attended, but there had never been so many famous men in the village before. From the various colleges there had come the scientists to pay their last respects to the famous man who had worked with them. And then, after mentioning the names of some who had been at the funeral—names known the world over in intellectual circles—Ranville said:

“You know, Pelt, we wondered what would be done with the notes of Warren's trip, and how the world had been waiting for his account of his discoveries. We mentioned that the book must be finished. Well, we heard this morning that Niles Patton, who was with him on the trip, will finish the book.”

I turned to Carter, asking him if he knew Patton, only to be told that he knew him very well. He was a young assistant professor at Harvard, working under Warren in anthropology, and had been with him in China. And then Carter said that Patton would take up his task at once, and would be at work in the Warren library to-morrow.

Lunch was almost over, and we were just drinking our coffee when there came the sound of the door bell and the loud barking of the dog upon the lawn. The housekeeper passed through the room to the door, and in a moment returned. As she stood by Carter's side, he asked:

“Who is it, Mrs. Hart?”

She shook her head saying: “I don't know, Mr. Carter. The man says he must see you. I never saw him before.” She paused a second, then finished: “It's a Chinaman.”