Читать книгу Wadsworth Camp Mysteries - Charles Wadsworth Camp - Страница 17

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Miller walked across the dunes, elated at first by the fugitive caress, but after a moment his depression returned, heavier than before. He had hoped the interview would lead to some solution of Tony’s adventure, to the unveiling of the entire affair. Yet all it had brought him on that side was the girl’s avowal that she possessed an instinct which warned her when the lurking danger gathered itself menacingly.

He stepped into the dingy and pushed off. Before he had reached the boat Morgan came opposite him.

“Want to fish? ” Morgan called. “I’m going to try my luck at the lower end of the inlet.”

“Haven’t breakfasted,” Miller answered, “Bring your boat over.”

Morgan stopped his engine, pulled at the tiller, and drifted close. Miller studied him reflectively. Why was it that the pleasant little man surrounded his daughter with such cold reserve? Some unhappy family chapter, perhaps? That would also explain her repeated suggestions that nothing could come of their love. Or was the cause to be traced wholly to the girl herself? At any rate this one subject, as the constraint in the cupola yesterday reminded him, altered Morgan’s genial personality completely. Certainly he was good-humoured enough now.

“I see you got back all right last evening. Didn’t see any women in white?”

“That’s what I wished to speak to you about,” Miller answered. “No orthodox ghosts, but something more puzzling.”

Morgan was curious. He asked meaningly:

“In that piece of woods?”

Miller nodded, and told him of Tony’s experience. As he spoke the good humour faded from Morgan’s face. He listened dejectedly.

“What next?” he exclaimed when Miller had finished. “Thank heavens this wasn’t another coroner’s case. Who’ll be the third? See here. Miller, I was really anxious to run you out in my launch last night. I didn’t press the point, because I didn’t want to appear ridiculous. But I don’t feel right about that piece of woods. We’ve had warning enough now. Even before anything happened, as I told you, the Andersons and I preferred to walk it by day. Now here’s the cat bitten there, and Jake, and this unaccountable affair of last night. There’s no answer. What in the name of heaven is wrong?”

“I am going to find out what’s wrong,” Miller answered grimly. “I am going to satisfy myself about that piece of woods before I get through with it.”

“You’re young. Frankly, I’m afraid of it,” Morgan answered.

He sighed.

“If this sort of thing keeps up I suppose sooner or later I’ll have to get out. And the plantation seemed just what we wanted. It’s lonely enough now. Why don’t you come over and spend the night tonight? We can have a game of chess, and I’ll promise to get you to bed early.”

“I’m sorry,” Miller said. “The Andersons have asked me to have dinner and stay with them. Another time.”

“I wish you would,” Morgan urged.

He laughed uncomfortably.

“Here I am crying for company! Well, one can’t always analyse. There is just an unpleasant feeling about the house after dark.”

He started his engine and prepared to swing off.

“Sorry you won’t try your luck with the fishes.”

Miller tried with poor success to make his voice derisive.

“Wraiths are much more tempting game to-day.”

“But scarcely as likely to rise to bait, I’m afraid,” Morgan answered with a frown.

“Speaking of fish,” Miller went on, “reminds me I’ve yet to call on that fisherman over there.”

He turned and gazed at the low hulk, again apparently abandoned. Morgan followed his glance. A troubled look replaced his frown.

“Funny business, that!” he muttered. “What’s he here for, and where is he most of the time?”

“I’d like to know,” Miller said. “The other day you asked me not to judge any of you too harshly until I’d been at the island a reasonable length of time myself. I’m almost ashamed to suspect that my fitness for judgment at all is decidedly in question. Anderson has spoken to me of a ridiculous fancy. He said that fellow seemed no more real than the atmosphere of the island—in fact, was symbolical of the whole thing.”

“Ridiculous, of course,” Morgan answered. “Yet I think I understand what Anderson meant”

“I think I can understand, too,” Miller said. “That’s why I no longer venture to judge.”

Morgan expressed Miller’s fancy of the other day.

“That boat looks like a wreck—a wreck on which somebody has died hard.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Miller replied, “but of course it’s all nonsense. There’s nothing supernatural anywhere—least of all there. But, I must confess, it startles me to have such thoughts at all; to feel, even subconsciously, the impulse to harbor them. Besides, I’ve seen the man,”

“Yet, you know,” Morgan said, “he isn’t often to be seen; and, if Anderson raised the question as to whether anybody had touched him, or heard his voice, or caught him expressing an emotion—Well? What could I say? What could you? You’ve had your eyes on him. That’s all. And how often?”

“Only once,” Miller answered, “yesterday when I was starting through the woods to call on you.”

“I’ve been here a long time,” Morgan said, “yet I’ve seen him scarcely more than you. I’ve called to him. So has Anderson.”

Miller thrust his hands in’ his pockets.

“I hailed him yesterday. No answer. No move.”

“The few times I’ve had a chance to look at him,” Morgan said, “he’s been like that.”

“Anderson told me you’d been aboard.”

“Yes,” Morgan answered,” rather a foolish expedient to lay that mystery. It amounted to nothing. If there had been anybody watching I’d have appeared a fool.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. The puzzle of that wreck, the absence of the man, the lack of any sign of him—it all got on my nerves. I’m afraid I lost my temper.”

“One does sometimes experience here a helpless feeling bordering on rage,” Miller agreed. “At any rate I’m going to repeat your experiment this afternoon.”

“You’re going to board him, too?”

“If he doesn’t answer when I hail. Maybe he will though. In spite of what I’ve seen myself and all you and Anderson have told me, I can’t conceive of his not either welcoming or resenting my presence in some positive way.”

“If he isn’t there at all?” Morgan asked.

“No doubt about his being there sometime. And where else, in heaven’s name, would he be?”

“Anyway, don’t take any chances,” Morgan warned.

“I shan’t,” Miller answered. “Besides, Tony will be with me. You see, Morgan, things have come to a point where it’s difficult for me to remain inactive. Tony’s affair last night has brought matters to a head, and I feel something ought to be done.”

Morgan spread his hands.

“I’ve said that for a long time, but what to do!”

Miller laughed.

“Perhaps the fisherman can tell me. I’m sorry to have kept you from your sport so long. Maybe the snappers will be all the hungrier. Good luck.”

Morgan swung away. As he chugged down the inlet he waved his hand cheerily, but Miller saw that his face was still troubled.

Miller stared after him. The fisherman temporarily left his mind, for Morgan’s receding back was a reproach. To be sure he had practically promised the girl not to speak about her to her father, and his reward had been that unexpected and singular caress. Yet, perhaps, it would have been the wiser part to have fulfilled his threat and have had the whole thing out with Morgan. In spite of the man’s attitude yesterday Miller could have nerved himself to that course this morning. And, after all, what could Morgan have said! Was an expression of disapproval to be weighed against the possible advantages of such a step? Beyond displeasure, such as he had exposed in the cupola, Miller felt sure Morgan could have offered no obstacles to the interview. He could have convinced the father of his right to demand a frank discussion of the girl and of her apparent elusive alliance with the atmosphere of Captain’s Island. Sooner or later that interview must take place, unless, indeed, Miller’s boasts were shown to be quite empty and the girl’s morbid prophecies were beyond all doubt accomplished.

Miller could not seriously forecast such a state of affairs. If he lived he would marry the girl. Since the very mystery of Captain’s Island had hurried him to that conviction, certainly he would not let its manifestations intervene.

As he stared after her father he wondered at his determination. While his love had grown the puzzle of the girl’s personality had, instead of diminishing, grown equally with it. She was less tangible, more exceptional than she had been that morning on the beach when the waves had played about her bare feet. “What was this girl that he loved! If it were not for the memory of his blind folly and the one quick caress she had offered of her own will, she would have seemed scarcely more real than the mystery in which apparently she was involved.

Had that caress held a meaning which he had not yet sounded? Had she possibly intended it to convey to him some significant message?

Morgan had disappeared behind the sands at the lower end of the inlet. Miller stirred, shaking his head. Inaction became more and more difficult. There was nothing to draw him to the island until after luncheon, but it occurred to him that he had not yet walked northward through the dunes. It would give him something to do, although he expected nothing in that direction except a glimpse of the marshes where Anderson had said the wild oystermen lived and worked.

“Tony!” he called.

The native came up the ladder and waited by the rail.

“I’m afraid you heard all that Mr. Morgan and I said.”

Tony nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Miller went on. “You slipped my mind. Still it gives you something to which you can look forward—our call on that fisherman after luncheon. We might not receive a gracious welcome. I fancy, Tony, you wouldn’t mind fighting that fellow if he turned nasty, in a way you could thoroughly understand.”

Tony’s grin was sickly.

Miller sighed.

“And he’d be too large for you alone. I’ve never been much of a brawler, but, I don’t know, Tony, it would be really diverting to fight something here you could get your hands on.”

Tony pointed to the end of the island around which they had sailed the night of their arrival

“I said—” he began.

Miller raised his hand.

“Don’t begin to crow too soon. Don’t misunderstand me. I haven’t said the things aren’t there, waiting for our hands, because they are if only we can drag them from under cover. They must be. If you ever persuaded me they weren’t I’d apply for admittance at the first comfortable lunatic asylum I could find. I’m no nearer believing in your ghosts than I was at first.”

Tony’s smile showed he was unconvinced.

“At least don’t get the jumps over what you heard,” Miller said. “I’m going to take the dingy now and row to the dunes. I thought it might be pleasant to wander north along the seashore for a few miles. Do you think I’ll meet any spirits in that direction?”

Tony’s face was impassive.

“Good!” Miller laughed. “The sands aren’t as spooky as the island or you’d warn me back.”

He lighted a cigar, descended to the dingy, and prepared to push off.

“A couple of hours at the most,” he called.

Tony smiled again.

“Breakfast then?” he asked.

Miller whistled, but he was shame-faced—a little shocked. Breakfast was a meal he customarily awaited with impatience. Tony, of course, had been busy with its preparations while Morgan and he had talked. For the first time he became aware of the appetizing odour of those preparations. He had completely forgotten breakfast. The fact furnished a disquieting illustration of his state of mind. It warned him that Captain’s Island was, as Molly had promised, increasing its influence upon him.

He took his cigar from his mouth. It was of large size and heavy quality. Usually that brand served as the last ceremony of his morning meal. He had lighted it absent-mindedly. Only now he appreciated its unfamiliar and harsh taste.

He threw the cigar in the water with a quick gesture. As he stepped back to the deck of the Dart his mind groped for an answer to Tony’s comprehending smile.

“Foolish to light that, for your bacon smells good, Tony. After all, I’ve plenty of time.”

He realised its inadequacy. The innuendo would fail with Tony who had had so much experience of his master’s appetite.

He went down the ladder and settled himself on the tapestry cushions. As a matter of fact he ate little, for his mind would not release the unpleasant recollection of its slip.

As he walked northward among the dunes afterwards he was more than ever glad he was to spend the night at the coquina house. Before, he had only been anxious to force the fight. Now, to do so impressed him as a necessity.

The dunes, when he had left the familiar section near the Dart’s anchorage, lured him on for more than two miles before they altered their character. He threaded his way among the graceful, sparkling mounds, catching, now to the left, a glimpse of the inlet, and, now to the right, the flash of the ocean.

Even here he walked carefully, watching the sand ahead of him. He didn’t care to take any unnecessary chances with snakes.

After a long time he scrambled up the side of a high dune and looked around him. He had walked past the curve of the inlet. The end of the island was more than a mile to the south. Across the sands, the marshes, and the water it frowned at him moodily. Even in this warm sunlight it looked forbidding.

He recognised a gleam of white among the trees for the plantation house. The girl was back there long before this. He tried to trace her route to the dunes. Probably she landed over there where the inlet curved and the marshes and the sands were divided by a narrow stream.

He slipped down the shifting flank of the dune and turned towards the marshes. The mounds became smaller and less frequent. Then he passed the last of them. He found that the narrow stream which emptied in the inlet was near at hand. Beyond it the marshes stretched away interminably—a green desert with a few distant clumps of trees which cut into a cloudless sky.

Miller faced straight to the north. There, too, the prospect did not at first vary. As he gazed, however, he thought there was a slight difference. A straight black line against the sky, which he had taken for a dead tree, might be the mast of a boat. Keeping to the sand, he paralleled the course of the stream. Very soon he became convinced that he did, indeed, see a mast ahead.

The marsh straggled now along his side of the stream. It forced him nearer the dunes. As the mast grew sharper and larger and he could see the cords stretched from it, he left the open altogether and sought the shelter of the mounds.

As he had approached unobserved the other morning towards the girl on the beach, so now he crept closer to this boat, apparently secreted among the marshes. He believed he was about to see one of those camps of the oystermen. He remembered Anderson had quoted Bait as saying these men lived in thickets, had the appearance of savages, and were united by some queer, secret organisation.

Miller continued stealthily, answering to a profound curiosity. He could make out now a thicket of stunted cedars and laurel bushes. It hid the boat and the mast for a third of its height.

He chose his path with more care. He tried to keep out of the range of any eyes that might be watching from the thicket at the foot of the mast

The bushes fell away. He paused, examining from behind the shelter of a dune the picture at last uncovered for him.

The dwarf growth twisted from a sandy bank which sloped upwards from the stream and invaded the marsh for a distance of fifteen or twenty feet. Miller guessed that it arranged one of the few shelters offered by the marsh itself for human occupancy.

The boat had been hauled close to the bank. The rough stakes to which it was moored gave the camp a permanent air.

The boat was sloop-rigged. It was squat and, probably, flat-bottomed for traffic in these channels. Unpainted and dirty as it was, it lacked that abandoned appearance of the fisherman’s hulk in the inlet.

There was, moreover, life to be observed here. Miller held his breath and studied it.

Three men sat around a smouldering fire on the bank. Bait had been right. They had the semblance of savages. Nor, Miller realised, had he much exaggerated when he had spoken to the coroner of uncivilised oystermen.

The faces of these men were covered with matted hair. It straggled in long wisps from beneath cloths wrapped about their heads in place of hats. Trousers and jackets, torn and stained, clung to their lanky figures. Their sea-boots were the only apparel which appeared to be whole.

Only once while Miller looked did he hear a voice. Now and then one communicated with another by means of a quick gesture, but for the most part they stared from eyes, reddened and narrowed by the wind, into the ashes of the fire. Behind them a rough lean-to, open at the front, and constructed of cedar stakes and palmetto, raised a primitive background. Empty oyster shells and tins littered the bank.

Miller was glad he had approached from the shelter of the dunes. Yet he felt a strong desire to expose himself now, to question these strange men whose habits were, to all appearances, aboriginal. He weighed the question. If he had only brought his revolver he would not have hesitated. It would be scarcely wise, however, to walk unarmed into this gathering since it scarcely lacked the characteristics of an ambush.

He was not blind to the fact that his caution might be an injustice. The appearance of these men, their very moroseness, might be borrowed from an occupation which chained them almost perpetually apart from the basic decencies of life. They might, indeed, welcome him as a diversion from their monotonous and degrading routine.

As Miller hesitated one of them arose and stepped from the bank to the boat. For the first time a voice broke the silence, hitherto disturbed only by the lapping of the water about the stakes and the hull.

“Come,” the man said. “High time we was off.”

His voice, like Tony’s, was harsh as if from disuse, but it was more guttural, more unpleasant, accustomed, one might have said, to a strange language.

The others got to their feet and joined the one on the boat. They raised the sail, cast off the moorings, and, lifting long poles from the deck, pushed their way, with motions timed to odd grunts, northward through the narrow stream.