Archie felt the hut whirling round him. What he held was beyond question
the reply of Mrs. Congdon to her husband's telegram that had been left
lying on the dinner table. And if Congdon had left New York for Bailey
Harbor immediately to put into effect his threat to abduct his child, it
might have been Congdon he had shot--not Hoky! The Governor, scrubbing
the paint from his hands, called over his shoulder:
"An odd message! It had slipped under the seat. Good thing I found it."
"Where did you find that car?" asked Archie with an attempt at
indifference.
"Oh, the bloomin' thing was run up under a clump of trees on the back
road on the far side of Bailey. I thought maybe it was a stolen car.
Hoky and I separated there when the storm started. So I drove the
machine to the place you found me waiting for him. Mr. Congdon has
probably notified all the world of his sad loss." He held out his hands
for Archie's inspection. "This is certainly hard and fast paint, but it
did the work all right. The owner of that machine wouldn't know it now.
And not more than a spoonful of gas gone out of the tank; so we can make
a long jump, Archie."
No jump they could make would be long enough, Archie reflected. He was
afraid to ask further questions about the car and his senses were numbed
by the effort to determine whether it was Hoky he had shot or Mr. Putney
Congdon. If his bullet had impinged upon Congdon's person, the man would
undoubtedly believe his wife had ordered him murdered, and Archie found
no consolation in the conjecture that he had added to Mrs. Congdon's
distress. If Congdon wasn't dead he would be sure to make diligent
inquiries in the village as to his assailant and the stolen car. The
druggist would know who had taken the key and Archie had stated his
purpose to walk to the station and take the five eleven train. But
beyond Bailey Harbor he saw his alibi crumbling.
The Governor's ceaseless flow of talk fortunately diverted his thoughts
to more cheerful channels. He must stick to the Governor, who to be sure
showed no inclination to desert him. Indeed the Governor evinced a
sincere pleasure in his society, and if he behaved himself he might fill
the void created in the man's life by the loss of Hoky. He would remain
in hiding until the whole thing blew over, whether it was Hoky or Putney
Congdon he had shot in Congdon's house.
He obeyed with alacrity a hint that he prepare luncheon; and after this
had been consumed the Governor suggested a game of chess, produced a set
of ivory chessmen from a cupboard and soon proved himself a skilful
player.
"It's wonderful for sharpening the wits," he explained. "When I've got a
difficult job on hand I find a game stimulating to my faculties. Let me
see, who was that telegram addressed to? Congdon; yes, that's right.
Dropped into a chess club in Boston about a month ago and watched a chap
playing, highly nervous fellow but a pretty stiff player at that. They
called him Congdon all right and he may be the owner of that car. The
thought pleases me. Heard him asking for his father, Eliphalet Congdon,
who's a chess fiend, too, it appeared. Had heard of him before--the old
boy carries his will around in his umbrella just to tantalize his
relations, who are all crazy to know what he's going to do with his
money. Something pathetic in a man chasing his own father over the
country; doesn't gee with our old ideal of the patriarchal system with
father at the head of the table serving the whole family from one
miserable duck. Ever notice a queer streak of eccentricity in people who
toy with the chessmen? Of course you're thinking I'm no exception to the
rule, but the thought isn't displeasing to me. That was a neat
move--you're waking up, Archie! Well, sir, young Congdon was offering
something handsome to any one who'd steal the old man's umbrella so he
could get hold of the will. I've sunk pretty low, Archie, but stealing
umbrellas is distinctly not in my line!"
At the end of two hours the Governor declared that they must take a nap
before setting out and turned into one of the berths and was soon
snoring. Archie was glad of a chance to be alone with his thoughts, but
he found them poor company. After kicking about restlessly for a time he
slept but only to wander through a wild phantasmagoria of crime in which
Isabel Perry, dressed precisely as he had seen her at his sister's, led
him on from one wild scene to another, clapping her hands with delight
at each exploit.
"You are doing splendidly," she laughed, as he turned to her, pistol in
hand, after shooting a gigantic policeman with fiery red whiskers.
"Really you exceed my expectations. I am proud of you, Mr. Bennett," she
was saying when a vigorous shake brought him up standing.
"To gain or lose it all," he stammered rubbing his eyes. But it was not
Isabel he was addressing but his confederate, blandly smiling.
"The boy quotes poetry!" the Governor exclaimed. "Archie, you've come in
answer to my prayers! Together we shall drink of the fount of Castalia.
We shall chum with Apollo and the Muses Nine! But the gods call us
elsewhere! We'll snatch a bite and be off! And we've got a job all
waiting for us. One of the brotherhood has commissioned me to dig up
some boodle he's planted over in New Hampshire. You may recall the
incident. Red Leary, a rare boy, who pulled off some big enterprises in
Kansas and Missouri a dozen years ago, emerged from Leavenworth and
floated into good old conservative New England where he held up an
express messenger and sauntered off with fifty thousand dollars in new
bank notes fresh from the Treasury. I've been in touch with Red
lately--he's been up in Nova Scotia but doesn't like the climate, and he
wants his boodle. Do you follow me?"
"He hid it somewhere and wants your help in recovering it?"
"Right the first time! In the summer there's a lot of travel north and
south and Leary, who's had an honest job up there since he made the
haul, is even now wandering down Lake Champlain to meet me. No, Archie,
communication through the underworld is much less difficult than you
imagine. Regular post offices and that sort of thing. That cash is
tucked away in the cellar of a church and by this time tomorrow night
we'll have it, all ready for old Red and check the item from our
tablets."
"But the numbers of those notes are in every bank in the country,"
suggested Archie; "the police are only waiting for the bills to get into
circulation to pounce on the thief."
"I am more and more delighted with you, my son! That point had given me
no little worry. But something will turn up; there will be a way out of
the difficulty. Chuck your old duds into the creek and close the
windows. We'll hit the long trail!"