Читать книгу Who Killed Caldwell? - Carolyn Wells - Страница 8

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The morning papers awaited them in the library.

Perry picked up one, separated the sections and gave Marcia the one he knew she wanted.

“Choose your paper, Archer,” Caldwell said, “and see what one you want to read regularly.”

“They all look alike to me now, but I’ll soon make a choice.”

“Quick at making decisions, are you? That’s good, it argues an alert mind.”

“But perhaps not always a wise decision,” Vincent observed.

“Then it must be a poor thing, but mine own,” Archer came back. “I have saved my life several times by quick decision, so I am biased in its favor.”

“Tell us a story about one of those times!” cried Bruce, who had been waiting his chance.

“Don’t nag, Bruce,” Archer said, and then turned to Caldwell.

“Did you say you wanted me this morning, Father?”

“Yes, later on. Griffith will come about eleven, and I shall see him alone first. Then I want him to meet you.”

“Very well, sir. Bruce, my boy, if you’ll be at leisure at ten, I’ll tell you a story then.”

“I’d like to know when I’m to scrape my brother’s acquaintance!” Marcia said, plaintively. “You’re all having dates with him, and I’ve hardly had a word with him!”

“Come along and hear the story,” offered Bruce. “You, too, Lorry.”

“You can’t leave out Vincent and me,” Perry told them. “We’ll just consider we’re invited too.”

“But I didn’t plan for a regular audience,” said Archer, smiling. “My story isn’t important enough for so many.”

“Oh, I think so,” said Caldwell, “I was just thinking Griffith and I would stroll in.”

“Let’s charge admission,” suggested Lorraine, “and give the receipts to some charity.”

“I’ll pay for my seat,” Vincent said, “but I can’t be at the show, I’ve an engagement downtown.”

At ten o’clock, Archer was relieved to find only his two sisters and Perry and Bruce in his audience.

“It’s just a mysterious thing that happened to me,” he began. “If it interests you, I shall be glad to tell it.

“As you probably know, the Northwest Frontier Province of India is a scene of continuous fighting. Every man carries a rifle all the time, and fires it, whenever he can find something to fire at. They are the Moslem Pathan tribes, and are called the world’s greatest fighting men. They are led by Müllahs and fakirs, and it is their pride that they never forget or forgive. It is said they have but one good trait; they consider it a deadly sin to refuse hospitality.”

“Who would want their hospitality?” cried Marcia. “Who would care to visit the brutes?”

“No, they are not attractive,” Archer smiled at her, “they never neglect a blood feud, and they would commit any atrocity if well paid for it. They call the whole Frontier India’s Bear Pit.”

“I hope you never played bear,” Perry said.

“Well, I had to go through that country on my way to India, and it so chanced that I was making the trip alone. I was a daredevil chap, and felt sure there was no danger if I used proper care. I had a revolver, but I didn’t want to use it, unless I had to. It is said that in that part of the country the men cannot get work and are obliged to live by banditry.

“The railroads just there are far from safe or reliable and the train I traveled on broke down. I was told there was a good inn not far away, but I would have to walk there. Hopefully I set out, but let me tell you, never go to India, expecting warmth all the time. When the cold winds strike you, they search your very bones, and you feel willing to take shelter anywhere you can find it. But after buffeting the winds and getting soaked with the cold rain, I did come to the inn, and though it was a broken down old ruin, it looked to me like a haven of rest.

“As I told you hospitality is a ritual in India, and the landlord, who looked more like a brigand, took me in and banged the door shut behind me, with a manner that took the gilt edge off of his welcome.

“He then explained to me that he couldn’t put me up as he had but one vacant room.

“‘But one is enough,’ I cried, ‘I don’t want a suite. Lead me to it and quickly!’

“‘Nay, sir, you will not sleep there! You cannot! Alas, the room is haunted!’

“I told him I just adored haunts, and the room would suit me down to the ground. I had difficulty to make him believe me and had to pay double price to get the room at all.

“I was surprised to find the room in better condition than the rest of the house. It was furnished with some very old pieces that had once been grand but were now falling to bits. Ragged velvet hangings, broken furniture, cracking walls, crumbling cornice, it was ghastly, but it was shelter.

“The landlord advised me to lock my door, and then he went away. I got out of my wet things and into pajamas and dressing gown, and then began to look around. There was but one window, closed to keep out the wind and rain, and only one door, that by which I had entered. That was provided with a strong lock and a big key which I turned with much satisfaction. I gave a thorough search for any other mode of ingress, but there was none, so, laying my revolver on my bedside table, I went to bed and fell soundly asleep from sheer fatigue and exposure.

“I had valuables with me, money and some jewels, but these were in a belt that I wore round my waist both day and night.

“I was suddenly awakened by a faint sound, as of someone in the room. And at the same time, I felt a draft of cold air. Could someone have got in the window? I dared not light the lamp, but I snatched my pistol and fired in the dark, aiming toward the window. I heard another faint sound and I fired again.

“I heard no more, and I lay for some time, shivering with fear and wonder. I had been told that the room was haunted; had the ghost visited me? I rose and lighted the lamp and I searched everywhere. But no trace of the intruder could I find. Could it all have been imagination? No, for I was sure I heard a moan or groan after my second shot. Where had those bullets lodged? I must find them, for my own peace of mind. I did find one, in the window frame, but the other I could not find!

“Over and over the room I searched, under the bed, the dresser and the wardrobe, but there was no sign of that second bullet. It was then about three o’clock, and I returned to bed but not to sleep. With the first streak of dawn I was out of bed and once more hunting that bullet.

“But with no success. I dressed and went downstairs, and to my surprise found a much better breakfast than I had hoped for in that ramshackle old house. To the landlord’s inquiries as to how I had slept, I told him that I had seen no ghost or specter of any sort.

“‘But I heard a shot in your room!’ he told me.

“‘Yes,’ I returned, ‘I had a bad nightmare, and thought I saw a hobgoblin, and shot at it, but I missed it!’”

“And what did he say to that?” asked Bruce, who was thrilled with the tale.

“He just grunted and said I had a vivid imagination. As soon as I could, I paid my bill and was on my way.”

“Without finding out anything more?”

“I had no desire to find out more, I just wanted to get away. You see, he had told me the room was haunted. So I thought it my cue to shoot at a ghost. I was safe so far, and I desired to remain so. Remember, I had searched the room carefully for any way a person could enter, beside through the doorway. There was none, of that I was certain. The window was tightly fastened and the rain was still pouring down.”

“You know,” Perry said, “sometimes they can unlock a door from the other side. They have a gadget—”

“Yes, I know,” Archer agreed, “but that instrument wouldn’t work on that old-fashioned lock.”

“Was the innkeeper an Indian?”

“I don’t know. He was an uncanny looking old man, who might have claimed almost any nationality. But he was dangerous, and, to my mind, ghosts were not, so I agreed to the ghost theory, and went my way, and I departed quickly.”

“And you didn’t tell him anything more?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And you never heard anything about who it was in your room?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that! Well, yes, I did hear further about it. It was just by chance that—”

Archer was interrupted by the entrance of Stark, who said that Mr. Caldwell wanted him to come upstairs to the study at once.

“Continued in our next,” he said, as he rose to go. “I did have a report. Puzzle it out for yourselves.” And he went off with Stark.

The valet led the way to the room back of Caldwell’s bedroom, which was sometimes dignified by the name of study.

Lawyer Griffith was there and he met Archer with a warm greeting. The legal gentleman was a middle-aged man with piercing black eyes and a firm, decided mouth.

“I’m glad to see you,” he said, heartily. “Your father has told me the tragic story of your life, and how he is going to try to make it up to you. And I am glad and proud that I can be of help to him and to you.”

Archer didn’t especially care for this speech nor for the touch of fawning manner that went with it. But he answered, politely, “Thank you, Mr. Griffith,” and let it go at that.

Then there was a long statement by the lawyer of Mr. Caldwell’s possessions. Archer was informed of the great size of the Caldwell estate and given a detailed account of how it was invested or secured.

Archer became a little bored with the continued lists of stocks and bonds, and shares and dividends, but as he glanced at the man who owned all this, he saw that Irving Caldwell was enjoying himself immensely.

Caldwell was not purse-proud, and never boasted, but he liked to hear this accounting of his property, since it was done for a proper reason and with a definite intention.

He wanted Archer to know as much as his other children about these things, and more, too, as he would be the principal beneficiary.

So, after the listing was finished, Griffith read the will aloud.

The two houses were left to Archer, and also the largest share of the securities. The other children were left goodly amounts, though they seemed small compared with Archer’s share.

He demurred at this, but his remarks, though listened to, were not acted upon.

“You see, boy,” Caldwell said, “you can give Vincent and Bruce presents if you like, and as your judgment dictates, but I realize your fitness for the position you must take, and I know all will be well.”

“You are very good, Father, you are too good. But I must speak what is in my mind, I must say what it is that troubles me.”

“Of course, of course, say it out, young fellow,” and Griffith looked at him keenly.

“Well, then, it is that Vincent seems to resent my being here. He feels, I am quite sure, that I ought not to have returned. Indeed, he has cast doubts on my identity. He has implied that I am not Archer Caldwell at all.”

Griffith laughed loudly.

“Is that so?” he cried. “Then he is jealous!”

“But,” Caldwell said, somewhat gravely, “I don’t, myself, understand, Archer, why you wouldn’t prove it in the way he suggested.”

“That’s just it, Dad, it was the way he suggested it that made me refuse.”

“Still I don’t quite see—”

“Tell me the trouble,” Griffith urged. “Let me advise on what seems, what must be an important question.”

“Tell him, Archer,” said Irving Caldwell.

“Well, you see,” Archer said, “it was this way. We both, Vince and I, had our initials tattooed on our backs, when we were schoolboys; I was twelve and he was ten. There was a traveling chap came around, we were up in our country place, and he tattooed a lot of the fellows. But we didn’t tell Father and Mother about it. Well, Vincent demanded that I show my tattooed letters to prove my identity!”

“And why didn’t you?” Griffith inquired, interestedly.

“Yes, why didn’t you?” said Caldwell.