Читать книгу The Case of the Calico Crab - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 4

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IT was a curious combination of circumstances that had brought about the wintering of at least part of Stacy Newhall’s family in the remote locality of Cedar Point. Up to this time, she had never spent the winter anywhere save in the college town in which they normally lived and later at her boarding-school. Her father was professor of ornithology at the college. Her mother was also an instructor in the institution, in the department of literature. Her older brother, Jim, had recently graduated from another college and immediately thereafter joined up with the aviation service. Beside these, there was one other member of the house, the eight-year-old English boy, Michael Crane, who had been evacuated from London a year before, and had miraculously reached them after some hairbreadth escapes from submarines in crossing the Atlantic. His parents had been lifelong friends of Mrs. Newhall, and she had offered to give Michael a place in her own home, “for the duration.”

The Newhall family had spent the preceding summer at Cedar Point, as they had so frequently done in recent years. Mr. Drew, who had been a friend of Professor Newhall since their college years together in young manhood, had allowed them to use it, for a very moderate rent. He would have preferred them to pay no rent at all, since he was such a close friend, but the Professor would not hear of this. Though Spencer Drew was a multimillionaire, and owner of one of the greatest chemical works in America, it made the Newhall family feel more independent to know they were paying something for the privilege of using this delightful spot as a summer home.

Cedar Point was an odd location, being the last five-mile tip of a narrow strip of land on a remote portion of the coast. It was seven miles south of the nearest coast town, the portion in between boasting only two or three fishponds and some baymen’s shacks, and one little general store kept by a woman named Mrs. Dunne. When Mr. Drew had purchased the lower five miles for his own use, he had had a hurricane fence built across the narrow upper end, from ocean to bay, with a locked gate for entrance. No one possessed keys to this gate except himself, the Newhalls and the members of the Coast Guard Station down near its southern end. There was no other access to the property except by boat, on the bay side, or by slipping around the ends of the fence at low tide. As it was so far from town few, if any, ever tried it.

The Newhalls had returned from here to their college town, the previous autumn, when the vacation days were over, expecting to take up their college work as usual. Stacy was prepared to enter the Freshman year in college and her plans were all made, when suddenly there came a strange reversal of these plans. Her father abruptly announced one day, that instead of beginning on his teaching year, he would take his sabbatical year of freedom from college work, go back to Cedar Point and complete a book, which he had long planned to write and illustrate, on shore-bird life in winter. Only Stacy seemed to be completely dumfounded in this upset to her plans.

“Why does he have to do it just this year?” she demanded of her mother. “I thought he was going to wait till next year, when you could take yours, and both have it together.” Mrs. Newhall seemed very calm about the whole thing.

“There are several reasons for it,” she told her daughter. “One is that he hasn’t been too well this past year or so—overworked and overtired. Even the summer did not rest him enough. He’ll give out completely, if he doesn’t have a long rest of several months more. Then, too, he wants to get that book done before more trouble breaks loose in this country. He feels certain we’re very near war. And if that happens, things may take such a turn that he won’t be able to finish it perhaps for many years. Then there’s Michael. He’s so frail and delicate still. I don’t think he was ever a strong child, and he’s been through an awful experience. He doesn’t seem to prosper in this inland air, but he made quite a bit of progress at the shore this summer. We think it might set him on his feet completely, to spend the rest of the year there.”

“Well, what about you—and me?” demanded Stacy. “Are Dad and Michael going down there all by themselves, and you and I going to stay here—or what?” Mrs. Newhall had hesitated just a moment over her answer.

“I’ve got to stay here, of course, and go on with my college work. But those two can’t be left alone at Cedar Point to shift for themselves—and that’s where I’m afraid you’ll have to make your sacrifice, my dear. I’m hoping that you’ll be willing to go with them and see to the running of things. We can get Mrs. Olafsen from the fishpounds to come in every day, as she does in summer. All you’ll have to do is supervise things. I’ll get down every weekend that I can. I know it means giving up your college year, but this is an emergency and we count on you to do your part. It may be more of an emergency than you think, so don’t feel we are asking this of you lightly, will you?”

Stacy’s lips had quivered, and her brown eyes had filled with tears of disappointment. It meant the complete abandonment of all her hopes and plans, and the suddenness of it all rather knocked her off her feet. For a moment she could not answer, and, in the interval, her mother added:

“It isn’t going to be very easy for me either, dear, to carry on alone here, and I know just how you feel.” Those few words had had the effect of bracing the young girl to a braver shouldering of her task. Giving her mother a spasmodic hug, she had exclaimed:

“It’s all right, Mums—you can count on me! I was a bit knocked cold, just for a minute, but I think I’m going to like it, anyhow. I’ve always wanted to be at Cedar Point in the off seasons and see what they’re like down by the ocean. Now the chance has come. Maybe I can take some of my college books along and do some studying by myself, down there. If I can tag along that way, I might even be able to make up two years’ work in one, next year—who knows!”

So it had come to pass. Michael, Stacy, and her father had packed their belongings and returned in the family car to Cedar Point in October. Mrs. Newhall had declared that she would not need the car and could come down by train and be met at the nearest town, at such times as she could get away. They would absolutely have to have it in that isolated spot.

The beautiful autumn months had drifted by, one gorgeous day after another. Stacy felt she had never realized the real charm of the fall and early winter season at the shore before—that it far exceeded anything the midsummer months had to offer. Her mother came down at frequent intervals, and often brought with her Stacy’s closest friend, Roberta Colt, who would have been her roommate if she had entered college that year. She wrote to Roberta (or Bobs, as she was better known) every few days, and this, with the studying she did, the “birding” tramps she took with her father, and her supervision and entertainment of the delicate little English boy, Michael, fully occupied her days.

It had all been very peaceful, idyllic, remote from anything that savored of trouble till America went into the war, early in December. And even after that, the outward surface of their lives remained practically the same, but Stacy was conscious of a strange uneasiness beneath the apparent calm. To begin with, they had word that her beloved brother Jim had, some weeks before, resigned from the army aviation service, joined the American Volunteers, and was even now in the Far East, preparing to patrol the Burma Road. He had proved himself a remarkably skilful pilot, and had been gladly accepted in the Volunteer Corps. He had had to sail at once, without even time to bid his family good-by. They were all proud of Jim, but never did they dare to confide to one another the secret fears they felt for his safety.

Stacy was conscious, also, that the coming of war had upset her father. He had never acknowledged it, but he seemed to have lost the calm of the earlier days and to be beset with a curious restlessness and uneasiness. Stacy thought it must be because of concern for his book. He complained frequently that the planes and blimps which so often now were passing overhead on their mysterious missions of war, disturbed the bird life of the coast, and were causing many of the wild ducks and geese to seek more inland regions. This was surely enough to cause him worry, but she sometimes wondered whether that were all. She felt there must certainly be something else, though she could not have explained why she thought so.

Thus matters stood on that late January afternoon, when she had decided to walk up to Mrs. Dunne’s store and see whether any mail had been left there for them. Mrs. Dunne’s own mail was brought down from the nearest town every day by her son, and she had offered to have the Newhall’s brought with it, so that they might be saved the trouble of going so far for it. Stacy had been kept indoors so long by the heavy storm that was now past, that she was glad of the outdoor exercise. It was on her way back that she had had the curious experience in the empty old house.

As she ran around her own house toward the east side, to enter it by the door facing in that direction, she was somewhat surprised to see a dingy, tan-colored closed truck standing in the driveway. It was no local vehicle. She knew every one of those. And how it had got in through the locked gate was a mystery. Probably its owner was inside the house, since there seemed to be no one in the driver’s seat. She opened the door and went in directly to the living-room. No one was there except Michael, a pale, frail little light-haired boy, cuddled up in a big chair, reading by the open fire.

“Hello, dear!” said Stacy. “Are you all alone? Whose truck is that out there, do you know?” Michael looked up sleepily from his book.

“I didn’t know there was a truck,” he replied. “I didn’t hear any come in. Yes, I’m all alone. Even Mrs. Olafsen went home a while ago. She’ll be back before suppertime, she said. I knew you’d be in pretty soon—or Uncle Ben—so it was all right.” He had been told to call Mr. and Mrs. Newhall “Uncle Ben” and “Aunt Eustacia,” though they were no actual kin, and it seemed to cheer him in his homesickness to do so. Stacy looked nonplussed at his announcement and declared:

“Well, there’s something very queer about how that truck got in through the gate and why it should be parked in front of this house. Somebody must be around who belongs to it and I’m going to find out who it is!” She wasted no more words but darted out of the house.

When she reached the truck, in the driveway, she walked all around it, trying to figure out where it had come from. It bore the state license tags, but the series of letters indicated that it belonged in some region far distant from its present locality. Curious to know what it contained, she went round to the rear and tried to open the closed doors. They proved to be securely locked, and she could not budge them. She had not yet taken her hand from the handles of the door, when a voice behind her almost startled her out of her shoes:

“Better let those alone! You’re not supposed to snoop!” She whirled about indignantly—to behold a thin, tall, red-haired young man with dancing bright blue eyes and sandy eyelashes, and thick-lensed complicated looking glasses, grinning at her. He had evidently just come around a bend in the driveway.

“Why—Spike Truman!” gasped Stacy, recognizing her brother’s best friend and college roommate. “How on earth did you ever get in here?” Spike (who went by that name for no known reason except that his real one was Reginald) grinned at her impishly and made a mock-ceremonious bow.

“Good afternoon, Miss Eustacia Newhall!” he chuckled. “I’m certainly happy to see you—looking so fresh and blooming!”

“Don’t call me ‘Eustacia’!” she commanded petulantly. “You know how I hate it!” Stacy never had liked her full name—and Spike was a notorious tease.

“Okay—Stacy!” he countered. “How’s tricks? I guess you must be surprised to see me in these parts, but there’s a reason. By the way, I wouldn’t half mind going indoors and warming up a bit, if it’s all the same to you. I got kind of frozen, waiting around for somebody to come home. Where you-all been?” Stacy suddenly remembered her hospitable duties.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Do come along in, Spike. I just got back from a walk, and Dad’s out somewhere. Michael’s home, but he must have been asleep when you knocked. Even Mrs. Olafsen isn’t here just now.” They turned to walk up the path toward the house, when Stacy suddenly demanded:

“What’s the matter with the nice little car you used to have, Spike? Why are you driving that disreputable old truck—and what’s in it, anyhow?” Spike gave her a curious look, as he answered:

“My car’s still all right—back in its li’l old garage. And don’t throw any mud at this nice truck—it serves a very useful purpose. It’s got five very good tires—and that’s important right now!” His answer was evasive, and she sensed that he didn’t want the question pressed any farther. But as they entered the house, she couldn’t resist asking, “However did you get through the gate—without any key?”

“That’s a secret, too!” he tantalized her. “Maybe you’ll find out, sooner or later!”

“He’s just as impossible as ever!” she thought. “Always treats me as if I were a child, and hadn’t any sense. If he weren’t Jim’s best friend, I—I wouldn’t even speak to him!”

Michael sprang up with a glad little cry as he recognized Spike, whom he worshiped with the hero-worship of the small boy for the very much older youth. And while the two were chattering together, Stacy disappeared into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate and cinnamon toast. While she was still at this task, her father also arrived, and she heard them all talking and laughing together.

“Every one seems to get along nicely with Spike but me!” she thought resentfully, as she carried in the tray. “And I’d like him, too, if he didn’t tease me so much. The others don’t seem to mind it, but he treats me as if I were still only about twelve years old.” Which reflection was really much nearer the truth than she imagined. Stacy was short and slight in build—rather elfin in appearance and scarcely looked her seventeen years. To Spike, she had never seemed more than the twelve-year-old child she was when he first met her, and he had never ceased to treat her as such.

There were chortles of joy from all hands when she appeared with the refreshments. Spike sprang up to fetch a small table for the tray and Professor Newhall threw some fresh logs on the open fire.

“Now I begin to feel like a human being again!” announced Spike, as he sailed into the cinnamon toast. Michael was so busy devouring him with adoring eyes that he could scarcely pay attention to his own refreshments. And then Spike demanded news of Jim, whom he had not heard from since the latter had sailed for the Far East. While her father was giving as much as he knew, Stacy was wondering:

“Why hasn’t Spike enlisted, I wonder? With all his pals going into the army or navy or aviation, I should think he’d be ashamed to be fooling around, doing nothing in particular. He must be just waiting for his number to come up in the draft.” As if in answer to her private thoughts, Spike said:

“Jim’s the lucky guy; I sure envy him! Tried my darnedest to get into something, same time he did. But they wouldn’t have me. Not with glasses like these—and blind as a bat if I take ’em off a minute! But I’ll get into something yet—if it lasts long enough!” The simple explanation made Stacy feel rather ashamed of her previous thoughts. Spike went on to ask the Professor how he was coming on with his book and the conversation continued along these lines. Presently Spike got up to leave, and Stacy asked him if he were going back to his home across the state.

“Nope, I’m going to be around these parts for a while. Got a job to do right in this region, so I’ll be around here for a spell. Got a room up in town, but I’ll be seeing you all every once in a while. Thanks for the eats, Stacy. They sure did hit the spot. So long, Mike! Some day I’ll come down and give you a ride on the truck.”

When he went, Professor Newhall went out with him, and the two stood talking together a long while, standing by the truck. His departure left Stacy more puzzled than ever. When her father returned to the house, she tackled him straightway with:

“However did Spike get in here, Dad, through the locked gate, and what’s he doing down in these parts, anyway?” Her father hesitated just a fraction of a moment before answering.

“The way he got in was quite simple,” he said at last. “He just waited at the gate till the Coast Guard truck came through, as it always does about four. Then he showed them a letter from me, to prove he was a genuine visitor and not an intruder, and they let him through.”

“But how’s he going to get out?” queried Stacy.

“I gave him a key to use,” replied her father. “His work may take him in and out of here at intervals for a while, so he’s requested permission to have a key. I know Mr. Drew wouldn’t object—and certainly we won’t!”

“But what is his work, Dad?” persisted Stacy. “And why does he go around in that funny, disreputable old truck? It all sounds very mysterious. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it.” The Professor looked slightly annoyed, as he answered shortly:

“If he wouldn’t tell you, it’s pretty plain he doesn’t want to talk about it. So, if I were you, I’d avoid asking any more questions. He’s probably doing some very useful work. Let’s let it go at that.”

But Stacy was far from satisfied. She mulled over the puzzle silently, all through the evening meal, while Michael chattered about Spike and his own happiness in the prospect of seeing him occasionally. She was equally silent later, as she played slapjack and other simple games with Michael before his bedtime. The problem had quite driven the earlier one of the calico-crab from her mind.

After Michael had been safely tucked in bed, she wandered around the house aimlessly for a while, and finally decided that instead of settling down to read or listen to the radio, she would put on something warm and go out to roam around on the dunes a bit before going to bed. The wind had dropped, and there was a bright moon, making the landscape as clear-cut as day. Her father, who was tired after his long afternoon out in the wind, was dozing over the fire when she quietly slipped out and rambled over toward the high dunes by the sea.

On a dune she stood a moment, silhouetted sharply against the star-sprinkled sky. The air was icy cold but very still. The full moon, still in the east, spread a broad path of glory over the ocean, where only a lazy, silver-tipped surf beat softly on the sand. For miles the lonely beach stretched north and south of her. It seemed impossible to think of war and bombing-planes and cruel submarines in such a peaceful spot as this!

She was growing cold, standing there so still, so she ran down toward the surf, the sand crunching and spraying out under her flying footsteps. At the edge of the lazy waves, she turned and walked along a little way, keeping a lookout for frost-fish which were often cast up, numbed with the cold, on the beach, at this time of year. “It would be nice to get two or three for breakfast to-morrow,” she thought idly. There were no fish, however, but her eye was suddenly caught by an ordinary wet crab shell picked out by the moonlight, and her mind went back to that other curious calico-crab shell of the afternoon. And again she began to puzzle over the odd fact of its being where it was. A high droning overhead somewhere, pulled her gaze skyward, till she made out the distant winking red and green lights of a plane, working its way to the south. And somehow, the spell of peace was broken, as she realized it must be a patrolling bomber on the watch for some lurking submarine out there in the silver-crested sea. The war was everywhere—even in this heavenly spot! Shivering a little, she turned her back on the sea and raced across the wide beach toward the dunes and home.

It was when she was crossing the road that ran down through the middle of Cedar Point, that she happened to glance down its length toward the south—and stopped suddenly, dead in her tracks.

“That’s mighty queer!” she whispered to herself. “He never left the place—after all!”

Perfectly distinct in the moonlight, not more than a hundred yards from where she was, stood the dingy truck, pulled well off the road into the bushes. It was faced south and its rear doors stood wide open. The inside, however, was deeply in shadow, so that she could not see what it contained. But right beside the opening stood Spike, his back toward her, motionless and intent in posture. And from where she stood he seemed to be holding something against both ears.

For a moment Stacy was too startled to move. Then her first impulse was to hurry toward him and find out what it was all about. But, remembering her father’s warning, she realized that it wouldn’t be very fair to take him unawares in that fashion. Perhaps, later, he might be willing to be more communicative about his mysterious doings. Anyhow, she told herself, she wasn’t going to let him think she was interested in his affairs—not when he treated her the way he did!

And with this decision, she turned and vanished noiselessly into her own driveway and out of sight of him.

“Well, it’s certainly been a queer day!” she told herself before she fell asleep that night. “I wonder what’s going to happen next?” And at this moment a new thought occurred to her. So striking was it that she sat straight up in bed, hugging her knees with her arms.

“I wonder,” she murmured, “I just wonder whether Spike could have had anything to do with that calico-crab shell?”