A SECRET BEGUN
Next day it rained. And how it did rain! The lake was a gray mass of
spattered suds. The trees wept.
Petite Jeanne was quite content. She had started to read a long French
novel. There was a box of bonbons by her side, and plenty of wood for the
fire.
“It does not matter.” She shrugged her shoulders. “To-morrow the sun will
shine again.” At that she lost herself in her book.
Florence enjoyed reading. Sometimes. But never in the north woods. Each
day, every day, the woods and water called to her. She endured inaction
until lunch time had come and gone. Then she drew on her red raincoat and
announced her intention of going fishing.
“In the rain!” Jeanne arched her brows, then shuddered. “Such a cold
rain.”
“It’s the best time, especially for bass. Rain spatters the water. They
can’t see you, so they take your bait.”
She drew a pair of men’s hip boots up over her shoes and knickers, donned
a black waterproof hat, and, so attired, sallied forth to fish.
“The sprinkle box is a good place,” she told herself.
John Kingfisher, an Indian, had told her of the sprinkle box. The
sprinkle box belonged to a past age for that country; the age of logging.
To keep trails smooth, that huge loads of logs might glide easily to the
water’s edge, trails in those days had been sprinkled from a large tank,
or box, on a sled. The water from the box froze on the trail. This made
the sleds move easily.
When an anchorage for a very large raft had been needed one spring, a
sprinkle box had been filled with rocks and had been sunk in the bay.
Since water preserves wood, the box remains to-day, at the bottom of the
bay, as it was twenty years ago.
“You find it by lining a big poplar tree on shore with a boathouse on the
next point,” the Indian had told her. On a quiet day she had found it.
She had seen, too, that some big black bass were lurking there.
They would not bite; seemed, indeed, to turn up their noses at her
offering. “You wait. I’ll get you yet!” She had shaken a fist at them.
So now, with the rain beating a tattoo on her raincoat, she rowed away
and at last dropped her line close to the submerged sprinkle box.
Fish are strange creatures. You may make a date with them, but you never
can be sure of finding them at home at the appointed hour. A rainy day is
a good day for fishing. Sometimes. The fish of the ancient sprinkle box
very evidently were not at home on this rainy day. Florence fished for
two solid hours. Never a bite. She tried all the tricks she knew. Never a
nibble.
She was rolling in her line preparatory to returning home, when, on the
little dock on Mystery Island that led to the lady cop’s abode, she spied
a solitary figure. This figure was garbed from head to toe in rubber hat
and slicker. Like some dark scarecrow, it put out a hand and beckoned.
“The lady cop!” Florence caught her breath. “What adventure now?”
She welcomed this promised innovation for a rainy day. A few strong pulls
at the oars and she was beside the dock.
“Come up,” said the lady cop, giving her a hand. “Come in. I must talk.”
“Talk!” The girl’s heart leaped. “Talk. The lady cop is about to talk.
What will she tell?” She followed gladly enough.
When the bar was down at the door and they had found seats before the
fire, she glanced about the room. Everything was just as it had been on
that other occasion. The furnishings were meager; a sort of bed-couch, a
rustic table, some chairs, a fireplace. No stove. And on the walls, still
those two objects, the automatic pistols. But these did not seem so
strange now.
“I live here,” the young lady began, “because this place fits my purpose.
I must not be known to many. I have told you a little. No other living
soul in this community knows as much about me.”
“And even I do not know your name,” Florence suggested quietly.
“A name. That means little in the world of crime and police. The criminal
takes a new name when it suits his purpose. So does a detective. For the
moment I am Miss Weightman.” She smiled. “I am not at liberty for the
present to tell you whether or not that is my true name. And it really
does not matter.”
For a time after that she stared moodily at the fire. Florence respected
her very evident desire for silence.
When at last the lady cop spoke, it was in a tone deep and full of
meaning. “There are days,” she began, “when silence is welcome, when it
is a joy to be alone. Sunshine, shadowy paths, gleaming waters, golden
sunsets. You know what I mean.
“But on a dreary day of rain and fog, of leaden skies, dripping trees and
dull gray waters, one needs a friend.”
Florence nodded.
“If you were to be a detective, a lady detective,” Miss Weightman asked
quite abruptly, “what sort would you wish to be, the sort that stays
about courts, prisons and parks, looking after women and children, or one
who goes out and tracks down really dangerous wrongdoers?”
“I’d want to go after the bad ones.” Florence squared her shoulders.
“Of course you would,” her hostess approved. “I’m after a dangerous one
now, a man who is known from Maine to Florida, from Chicago to San
Francisco. And he’s up here right now.”
The last declaration burst upon the girl with the force of a bombshell.
“In—in a quiet place like this!” She could not believe her ears.
“It’s a way crooks have of doing,” the other explained. “When they have
committed a particularly dangerous crime, or are in possession of stolen
goods difficult to dispose of, when the police are after them, they hide
out in some quiet place where you’d least expect to find them.
“Besides,” she added, “this location is particularly advantageous. The
Canadian border is not far away. In a speed boat, it is but a matter of
an hour or two, and you are over the line. He has a speed boat. He has
some young men with him. Perhaps they are his sons. Who knows?
“But this—” she checked herself. “This is starting at the wrong end of my
story. It can do no harm for you to know the facts from the beginning. I
need not pledge you to secrecy. Through my work I have learned to judge
character fairly accurately.”
“Thanks!” said Florence, charmed by this compliment from so strange a
hostess.