Читать книгу The Case of the Calico Crab - Augusta Huiell Seaman - Страница 5

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AT an early hour next morning Stacy was rapidly pedaling her bicycle up the road, past the gate, and in the direction of Mrs. Dunne’s little general store, where almost anything could be obtained from a can of tinned milk to a pair of rubber hip-boots. She had decided right after breakfast that it would be nice to have one of Mrs. Olafsen’s rich rice-puddings for lunch.

“Okay!—but den you hafta go for more milk—right away!” Mrs. Olafsen had commented. Stacy had therefore decided to take her wheel, though she would have much preferred to walk. It was a cold, bright morning with considerable wind, which greatly hampered her progress northward. She rather liked going to Mrs. Dunne’s store, which she always thought the most curious establishment of its kind that she had ever seen. It was close to the fishpound, and was more than just a store, for it contained tables where meals were served, and a big old billiard-table at the rear, where poundmen and Coast Guards and an occasional fisherman, could eat and amuse themselves. These were practically the only types of people who patronized the place, as it was far from the populace of the more northern seaside resorts.

As Stacy propped her bicycle against the rickety little wooden porch and opened the door to enter, she was aware of more than the usual racket within the store, for this early hour of the day. The noise appeared to come from the rear, where a group of poundmen and one or two Coast Guards were clustered around the billiard-table, watching two other people who were deep in a game. Mrs. Dunne, a tall, thin woman with white hair and a worried expression, was watching them from the door of the hot little kitchen opening from the back of the store, and her niece, a young girl of Stacy’s age, was waiting on a child from the fishpound, at the counter.

“Hi, Betsy, what’s up?” demanded Stacy, as the girl handed the child ten sticky gumdrops in a paper bag and shooed him out. Betsy Connell lifted her own worried face to greet the new-comer.

“Oh, nothing much, Stacy,” she admitted, “only a couple of fellows in here having a game. They must be pretty good at it—they’ve got the rest so excited they won’t eat the meals they ordered and it’s all getting cold. Aunt Liz’ll shoo ’em all out pretty quick if they don’t quit making such a racket! What’ll you have, Stacy?”

“Just a couple of quarts of milk,” said Stacy. And while the girl went to get them from the refrigerator, she looked again over to the corner where the billiard game was progressing. As one of the players moved around, chalking his cue, she suddenly recognized, with a start of surprise, the flaming red head and thick glasses of Spike! Somehow she had thought he must have gone back to town, and had never expected to see him at Mrs. Dunne’s. Why he should be playing billiards at that hour of the morning, instead of tending to more serious affairs was rather puzzling. She tried to see what the other person looked like but could only see the top of a head of straight light hair. When Betsy returned with the milk, she paid for it and hurried out, as she feared Spike might suddenly catch sight of her and hail her. Betsy went to the door with her, and as she opened it, she whispered:

“Ive got something to tell you, Stacy. But I don’t want to do it here. If I come down to the gate around eleven, could you meet me there?”

“Sure thing, Bets!” agreed Stacy. “I’ll walk up. I’m just spoiling for a nice long walk to-day. Maybe we could take a tramp through the woods.”

“I can’t stay long to-day,” countered Betsy. “Aunt Liz is baking pies and I have to tend the store. But I can get away for a little while about then. See you later!”

As Stacy wheeled back home with the milk, she wondered what Betsy could have to tell her which was so important that a meeting had to be arranged. She had grown quite fond of this young girl whose life was spent in the odd environment of Mrs. Dunne’s store, and during this rather isolated winter had seen quite a bit of her. Betsy Connell was her own age, and was a remarkably intelligent young person. She had come, a year or so before, to live with her aunt, when the sudden death of her father and mother had left her without any other means of support; Mrs. Dunne had come to her rescue and given her a home. She had been part way through high school when this tragedy had changed her life, and had hoped to finish it and obtain a business situation. But Mrs. Dunne’s abode was far from the nearest high school, and beside that, Betsy had realized she could not throw herself on the kindness of her aunt, without helping that overworked lady in every possible way. So she had let her other ambitions fade out, while she did her utmost to be helpful in the store.

Her friendship with Stacy, that fall and winter, had been the one cheering note in her not very entertaining existence. Stacy had loaned her fascinating books, they had tramped the woods and the shore together, and sometimes she had even visited for an hour or so at Stacy’s delightful home and met the others of her family. It had opened a brand new vista to her, and she secretly adored this new-found friend. On her part, Stacy was equally grateful for the companionship and thoroughly enjoyed the infrequent hours they spent together.

As she scudded toward home, she found herself wondering how Spike had come to be in the store, apparently idling away his time. And she looked around to see if she could discover the whereabouts of his dingy old truck. It was nowhere to be seen, along the whole distance of the long, straight, flat road, and she was certain it had been nowhere in the vicinity of the store. Where, then, could he have left it? The whole set-up was becoming more of a puzzle by the hour! And to add to it, Betsy seemed to have something mysterious to impart to her, that could not be disclosed in the publicity of the store. She couldn’t imagine what it was, but she felt she could hardly wait for their rendezvous at eleven.

However, there were nearly two hours to pass. She put most of them in by reading to and amusing Michael. He had had a bothersome cold for two days, and they had felt it best for him to remain indoors. He was an appealing little boy, frail and delicate in health, and still far from recovered, nervously, from the shock of his experiences in England during the bombing period of the previous year and his harrowing evacuation trip to America. He never spoke of these things and tried to be responsive and cheerful, but Stacy suspected they were never far from his mind.

So she read to him and played games with him that morning, before the open fire, but her own thoughts were still occupied with the curious circumstances that had happened during the last twenty-four hours. Presently it was quarter to eleven and she told Michael she must go out for a while and advised him to take a nap on the sunporch, where she tucked him up warmly in a lounging chair, with a picture-book for company. And as there was no time to walk that distance, she jumped on her bicycle and sped northward, arriving at the gate promptly at eleven. Betsy had not yet arrived, but at that moment Stacy could see her stepping down from the porch steps of the store and running toward her. Stacy unlocked the gate and Betsy came through it, considerably out of breath.

“Let’s walk into the woods a bit,” panted Betsy. “I don’t want to be seen here talking with you!”

“Whyever not? What’s happened?” demanded Stacy, to whom this singular request seemed something more than unusual.

“You’ll understand when I tell you,” replied the other girl. “Just let me get my breath.” They turned into the little path through the woods toward the bay, the same one Stacy had taken the afternoon before, and walked in silence till Betsy had recovered her wind. When they were screened behind the sheltering cedars, Betsy stopped short.

“I can’t go too far,” she declared. “I’ve got to get back pretty soon. But something happened yesterday afternoon that I thought you ought to know about. There’s a new young fellow that’s come to the fishpound lately—at least, he wanted to get work in the pound, but you know they aren’t doing anything during the winter. They don’t start up till spring. So he said he’d wait around till then, and he took one of the rooms Aunt Liz has over the store. They call him ‘Gunnar.’ I don’t know whether that’s his last name or what, anyway he seems to be a Swede or a Norwegian or a Dane, like the rest of them. He’s quite smart and full of fun, and they all seem to like him. That was he, playing billiards this morning with that red-headed fellow. I don’t know who he is—”

“Oh, you mean Spike Truman,” interrupted Stacy. “I saw him there. He’s my brother’s best friend. He came down to see us yesterday. He was driving a funny old closed truck—”

“Yes, I saw him in that,” interrupted Betsy. “But what’s become of the truck? I haven’t seen it since.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea!” admitted Stacy. “But tell me, Bets, what is this queer thing you know? Is it about Spike?”

“No, it’s about that other fellow—Gunnar,” said Betsy. “Yesterday afternoon, just about sunset, Aunt Liz sent me over to the bay to get some clams from old Ben’s place. You know, the one right down there.” She pointed in the direction of the shore to a ramshackle shack and dock, belonging to an old fisherman, Ben Thomson, who kept a constant supply of fish, oysters, and clams obtained from the bay. It was a few hundred feet north of the fence defining the Drew property.

“Well, while he was getting the clams, I was standing outside and I happened to see some one sneaking along by that wire fence. It was just light enough for me to tell that it was that Gunnar fellow. When he got to the end of the fence that runs into the bay, he slipped around it and disappeared into the bushes on the other side. I don’t know where he went after that, and I couldn’t wait to see when he came out. But I didn’t like the looks of it, somehow. He knew well enough he was trespassing on private property, because there’s that sign on the fence saying to keep out. So I thought probably you folks ought to know about it, and that’s why I’m telling you here, where no one could overhear us. I didn’t like the looks of it at all.”

“And neither do I!” cried Stacy. “We’ve never had any prowlers around here before. Thanks so much for telling me, Betsy. I wonder what we ought to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Betsy, frankly. “This is war time, you know, and I’m certain there’s a lot goes on around here that isn’t any too good for the country. You’d be surprised if you could hear the things whispered around that I hear, in the store! I don’t like it, and neither does Aunt Liz. I don’t know whether this Gunnar is mixed up in anything or not, but I hope he keeps away from you folks.”

A sudden memory struck Stacy, like a flash of lightning—the old house, yesterday afternoon, the eerie feeling in it, and the strange, inexplicable presence of that calico-crab shell on the tower window-sill. Breathlessly she related the experience to Betsy.

“Do you—do you suppose that has any connection with—this Gunnar?” she ended.

“It might—or it mightn’t,” admitted Betsy cautiously. “He might’ve got into the house, same as you did. Perhaps he went up in the tower to get a good lookout. But why leave a crab shell there? Or maybe he never went near the place at all.”

A sudden plan occurred to Stacy and she put it to her friend.

“Bets, where is this Gunnar—right now?”

“He was in the store when I came away, playing pool and drinking gingerpop. I’m pretty sure he’ll stay there till lunch time. He usually does. Why?”

“Because I’m going to the old house right now!” declared Stacy. “It isn’t far from here—and I’m going to see if anything else has happened!”

“Then I’m coming with you!” asserted Betsy. “If queer things are happening, it isn’t safe for you to go there alone. Let’s hurry—I really ought to be back at the store now.”

One behind the other, they tore along the little, narrow, winding path through the cedars, and emerged at the back of the old, empty house on the bay shore. To all outward appearance, it looked precisely as it always had. Certainly there seemed no sign of any one about, though they took the precaution of walking all around it on the outside, before entering. Then Stacy unhooked the broken lock from the cellar door and they cautiously tiptoed down into the dim cellar.

Once upstairs, in the room that faced the bay, all seemed very prosaic in the bright light of morning. The eerie feeling of yesterday afternoon was quite lacking. Without giving themselves time for any misgivings, they scampered upstairs and peered about in the three or four empty bedrooms to make sure there was no intruder present. Then, a little more slowly, Stacy led the way up the ladder to the cupola, Betsy following close at her heels.

The cupola was also empty. Together they stared out through the four windows for a second—at the bay on one hand, partly frozen over, and dotted with gulls sitting on the edge of the ice in large groups, the wide ocean on the opposite side, quiet and blue and twinkling in the morning sunlight, and the glimpses of trees and heather and rolling dunes through the windows to the north and south. But the scenery did not interest them at this moment. Stacy walked over to the south window, where yesterday had lain the calico-crab shell on the sill.

“Betsy,” she gasped, “this is where it was—and it isn’t here now!” They both looked wordlessly at the empty sill. Suddenly Stacy whirled about and sent a searching glance at the other three window-sills. In an instant she had plunged over to the one on the east side—and pointed dramatically:

“Look!” she cried. “It’s over here now—and I didn’t put it there either!” They both stared at it in blank amazement. It was Betsy who presently muttered:

“There’s something mighty queer going on here—and I bet that that Gunnar is mixed up in it!”

“What shall we do?” breathed Stacy.

“First of all, get out of here—right away!” advised Betsy grimly. And they raced down the ladder and out of the house. They never stopped till they had traversed the little path through the woods and were out near the road. Then, while they were catching their breath, Betsy announced:

“I’m late now. I can’t stay another minute. But we’ve got to talk things over—and right soon. Can we get together this afternoon some time?” Stacy thought it over a moment.

“Tell you what,” she decided. “I really ought to go with Mrs. Olafsen this afternoon. She was going to drive Michael and me to town in her car, so that I could do the marketing for the things we need. But I’ll say I don’t feel like going, and I’ll give her the list of things. She shops better than I do, anyhow. And Michael can go with her. He likes it and will enjoy the trip. Dad’ll be out hunting up his birds, and that’ll leave us alone for quite a while. When can you get there?”

“About three,” said Betsy. “I can only be away about an hour and a half. Then things begin to get busy in the store.”

“I’ll walk up and meet you at the gate,” added Stacy. “That’ll give us more time to talk.”

They parted on this arrangement, after Stacy had let her friend through the gate. But as she pedaled back toward her own home, she muttered to herself:

“What does it all mean? What’s going on here? And why—why, why was that calico-crab changed and put on another window-sill?”