The event that had driven Caruth to seek Bristow’s aid was the
appearance of a man who called himself Tom Wilkins and claimed to be a
brother of the deceased valet.
Tom Wilkins was a tall, well built, red-faced individual with a
projecting chin and small, sharp eyes. He bore a general resemblance
to his brother James, but his eyes had a fiery gleam that Caruth had
never noticed in those of his late valet. Perhaps the difference came
by nature and perhaps by training; or perhaps there was no difference,
the valet having merely hidden his soul behind discreetly down-dropped
lids. Since he had played the trick that had led to his death, Caruth
had been very uncertain as to his real character.
But he was in little doubt concerning that of Tom Wilkins. The man, he
decided almost at first glance, was distinctly dangerous. Years of life
in the West had rubbed away any smugness that might have characterized
him in early life, and had made him bold and aggressive. The quickly
arising necessities of the frontier had developed him, implanting or
improving the power of quick decision and action, until it was almost
automatic. Caruth had never known a Western “bad man,” but he felt
instinctively that Tom Wilkins would fall into that category.
On his first visit to the Chimneystack Building Wilkins had said little
to Caruth, but that little had been calculated to disturb the younger
man, and to show him how thin was the ice over which he was skating.
“There ain’t been no special affectation lost between me and Jim,” he
declared. “I ain’t laid eyes on him for years. Jim stayed here in the
effete East and played the human doormat; I went West and played pretty
nearly everything and everybody in reach. Once in so often I’d hear of
a chance in stocks or horses or something that Jim could use, and I’d
put him wise about it. Now and then Jim would learn of something that
I could use, and he’d put me wise. Jim cat-footed through life, and I
bulled through it. We played into each other’s hands reasonable well.”
“Yes?”
“Yes! I got sort of tired last month, an’ made up my mind to emigrate.
I had a bunch of sheep over on the Gunnison that I’d been herdin’,
and I was yearning for the company of something that wouldn’t say
baa whenever you addressed ’em. Playing collie to a bunch of muttons
ain’t what it used to was when shepherds carried crooks and wore loose
effects, and I found it mighty monumentous and unsatiated, so I shakes
the job and lines out for Denver, and there I finds a letter from Jim
telling me to come to New York P. D. Q. So I comes, and gets here to
find he got croaked just about the time his essay was postmarked. How
about it?”
As gently as he could, Caruth repeated the gist of his tale concerning
the theft of the money and the murder. It was a somewhat delicate
matter to tell this violent-looking individual that his brother was a
thief, and Caruth stumbled more or less over the details.
Wilkins, however, did not seem worried. “I never thought Jim would go
into the hold-up business,” he commented, “especially for a measly one
thousand eight hundred dollars. Maybe you don’t know it, but Jim was
gettin’ tolerable plethoric. He was mighty saving and propinquous, Jim
was; and he had some property out West--maybe ten thousand dollars’
worth. I’m his heir, and as I ain’t been in no ways intimidated with
him, of course I ain’t inconsolable about his decease, nor I ain’t
pretendin’ to be. But this hold-up story don’t explain none about that
letter from Bill that he sent me.”
Caruth’s heart stopped for an instant; then raced madly. “What letter?”
he questioned, as calmly as he could.
“This one.” Wilkins drew a paper from his pocket. “Jim enclosed it
with a note of his own. He says: ‘Come at once. Millions in sight,
but mighty dangerous. Bill’s letter explains.’ Bill’s letter is
monumentous--mighty monumentous; but it ain’t to say illuminatin’.
Maybe Jim forgot to send the key. I ’spose you don’t know anything
about it?”
Caruth thought for a moment. To cover his pause, he poured out a drink
and shoved the bottle across to Wilkins, who promptly followed his
example.
“Perhaps I do,” he said at last. “About an hour before your brother’s
flight, a special delivery letter arrived here from some place in
Europe. It was addressed to me, but when I opened it, I found it
enclosed another, stained and rumpled, which was addressed in my care.
The name of the person for whom it was intended had been washed out.
Your brother saw it and claimed it was for him. He asked me to open it
and see if it was not addressed to ‘Jim’ and signed ‘Bill.’ I found
that it was, and gave it to him. Perhaps that is the letter he sent
you.”
“I reckon it is. And you don’t know nothing more about it? I don’t
’spose Jim showed it to you. But he might have intimidated something
about it. You don’t know nothin’ at all?” Plainly the Westerner was
disappointed.
“Nothing.”
“Well, I’ll tell you unequivalent, Mr. Caruth! I don’t believe Jim
robbed you none. Jim warn’t a damn fool; none whatever! An’ nobody
but a damn fool would rustle that money the way you think he did. I’m
apostrophizing that the same parties stole it that did for Jim. An’
I’ve got an idea they croaked him to get this here crypto cable. I’m
gamblin’ that it’s worth a good deal more’n any eighteen hundred
dollars, if a man could only elusivate it. Sure you don’t know nothin’
more about it?”
“No!” Caruth’s lips were dry and his tones were not convincing.
The big plainsman studied him for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I’ve told
you how I feel. Jim’s dead, and I don’t say I’d go out of my way to
envenom him. But I do say that I want some light on this missive, and
I’m going to have it. And if anybody gets hurt in consequence of my
sloshing around, it won’t be my fault. You said you didn’t know no more
about it, didn’t you?”
Caruth jumped up, white but vicious looking. “That’s the third time
you’ve asked me that,” he exploded. “Do you mean to insinuate----”
“Not at all! Not the least bit in the world. I’m just theologizing.
You’ve treated me square, and I ain’t dangerous to nobody who does
that. But I’m exacerbated over that letter. I wouldn’t mind doing the
ingenuous thing by anybody that helped me to guess it.”
The frown faded from Caruth’s face, and an expression of thought took
its place. “I’m too much in the dark to help you much,” he parried.
Without the least hesitation the plainsman thrust forward the letter.
“Maybe this’ll help you,” he suggested. “This here is a copy. I’ve
got the aboriginal cached where it’ll be safe. But this is all to the
accurate except that it’s got two or three names of places left out. I
ain’t givin’ the whole thing away, you understand.”
Caruth took the letter with a hand that trembled in spite of himself.
He did not want to read it; to do so seemed a sort of dishonor--a lack
of consideration for the desires of Miss Fitzhugh. On the other hand,
it would be madness to let slip what might very well be his only chance
to acquaint himself with a letter she had bought and paid for and with
facts that might spell life and death to him and to her.
His uncertainty must have showed in his face, for the other encouraged
him. “Go ’long!” he said. “Read it. It won’t bite none.”
Caruth opened the letter. It read as follows: