I GET INTO THE GAME
I crept back, closed the door behind me, and sat down facing it. My
hand shook as I lit a cigar. This was becoming serious, a ghastly
tragedy, in the playing of which I scarcely knew my part. The whole
affair had seemed so simple at first, almost humorous. The earliest
impression being that it was no more than a good joke. I was willing
enough to be an instrument for keeping certain unknown institutions out
of a legacy bequeathed them by a crazy man, and saving the property to
his rightful heirs. Why not? especially as the very administrators
themselves considered it the proper thing to do. Of course a technical
crime was involved--I must pretend to be another, even forge that
other's name, but for no criminal purpose. I was merely paid for the
risk assumed, and it was easy money. Perhaps the years of rough life I
had led had blunted my sensibilities to large extent--had left me less
capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, yet, not until Mrs.
Bernard had so unexpectedly voiced her doubt did I so much as suspicion
I was being made a catspaw of for a criminal end. I was not willing to
confess as much even now, but I saw the affair from a new viewpoint. I
was not so sure, so certain, that I understood the entire truth.
Coombs was no plantation overseer, but a mere Texas bully. The very
appearance of the man told that, and those neglected, weed-grown fields
were another proof. What was he here for, then? And Sallie! Lord, I
could despise that Texas rough, but the snaky eyes of the woman made me
shiver, and look about apprehensively. Then there was the dead
man--the _dead man_. There echoed into my brain the woman's whisper in
the parlor below, "I 'm not afraid, but I am beginning to believe we
're doing wrong." There was wrong somewhere surely--cowardly crime,
murder! But were we connected with it? Was it also part of the plot
in which we were employed? I could not understand, yet resolved one
thing clearly--I would find out tomorrow, early, before she had to be
told the ghastly discovery of the night. With the first return of
daylight I would seek out Coombs, tell him what I had seen, and compel
him to confess the truth. Then I should know how to act, how to
approach her, and explain. My nerves steadied as I sat there in the
silence, and my mind drifted to the woman sleeping across the hall.
Then, my cigar smoked out, I also fell asleep in the chair.
The gray of dawn was on the windows when I awoke, my body aching from
its unnatural position. For the instant I imagined some unusual sound
had aroused me, yet all was quiet, the only noise the twittering of
birds from without. I closed my eyes again, but a ceaseless train of
thought kept me wide awake, and, finally, I got upon my feet and looked
out into the dawn, determining to explore our strange surroundings
before any others were astir. With loaded revolver in my pocket, I
slipped into the hall. The faint light revealed its shabbiness, the
grimy rag carpet, and discolored walls. Some spirit of adventure led
me the full length until my hand was upon the latch of that last door.
I could not resist an impulse to look upon the dead man again by
daylight, and thus assure myself of the reality of what seemed only a
dream. I opened the door slowly, noiselessly, and peered cautiously
within. The light was strong there, revealing clearly every nook and
corner of the room. All was exactly as I recalled it to memory--the
stained walls, the dirty floor, the table littered with cards, the
overturned chair and the motionless body of the dead man. I ventured
half way to the window, staring about at every sign revealed in the
glare. From the wound in the head a dark flow of blood stained the
floor, and, as I bent closer, noticed the eyelids were lowered over the
dead eyes. Shot as he had been, killed instantly, the hand of the
assassin must have performed this act. Then surely this killing had
been no common quarrel, but a planned assassination, the culmination of
some prearranged plot.
This knowledge, while it set my heart throbbing in realization of new
danger, yet served also to stiffen my nerves. What had we blindly
drifted into? What was behind this lawlessness which could make murder
commonplace? What mystery lurked about this haunted, hideous house
where death skulked in the dark? My thought was not so much concerned
with myself, and my own danger, as with that of the young woman whom I
was bound to protect. She had come innocently, driven by desperation,
to play a part she already loathed in this tragedy, and now I alone
stood between her and something too awful to contemplate. Now, before
she awoke I must discover the truth, and thus be prepared to get her
safely away.
I closed the door on the silence, and stole quietly downstairs. There
was no movement, no sound in the great house. The front room, hideous
in its grimy disorder, was vacant, and I opened the front door
noiselessly, and stepped forth into the spectral gray light of the
dawn. The first glimpse about was depressing enough. I had no
conception of what I was confronting, or of what was to be revealed by
my explorations, but the dismalness of the picture presented to that
first glance gave me a shock impossible to explain. The house itself,
big and glaring as it was, was nevertheless little better than a ruin,
the porch beams rotten, the front blinds sagging frightfully, the paint
blistered by the sun. Several of the windows were broken, and the
steps sagged and trembled under my weight. The front yard, a full half
acre in extent, was a tangled mass of bushes and weeds, a high,
untrimmed hedge shutting off all view of the road. The narrow brick
path winding through this mass of vegetation was scarcely discernible,
apparently seldom, if ever, used. I was unable to determine the
position of the gate so luxuriant was the weed growth, and thick the
shrubbery. From the foot of the steps a narrow passage trampled into
the dirt circled the corner of the house, disappearing within a few
feet. This was the only sign visible of human occupancy.
Convinced that this must lead to the rear, and possibly the negro
cabins where Coombs slept, I followed its tortuous windings, although
half afraid to desert my guardianship of the house even for this
purpose. Still there was little to be feared so long as Mrs. Bernard
remained securely locked in her room. I was freer for exploration now
than I would be later, and must know at once the conditions with which
we had to contend. Beyond doubt the woman was still asleep, and,
perhaps, by the time she aroused and appeared below stairs I could find
a reasonable explanation of all this mystery--something to smile over,
rather than fear. While this was but a vague hope, it still yielded me
a measure of courage as I picked my way cautiously along the south side
of the house, avoiding the windows as much as possible, until I emerged
into a somewhat clearer space of ground at the rear. The kitchen was
an ell, constructed of rough boards, but with shingle roof. The door
stood ajar, and I glanced in, only to find the room empty, the pots and
pans used the night before still unwashed.
There was nothing there to interest me, and I crossed a narrow space of
grass to where a broken picket fence was visible amid a fringe of
weeds. No description can fitly picture the gloomy desolation
surrounding that ramshackle place. It got upon the nerves, the decay,
the neglect apparent on every side. The very silence seemed
depressing. Evidently this fence, now a mere ruin, had once served to
protect a garden plot. But I saw merely a tangled mass of wild
vegetation, so thick and high as to obstruct the view. Narrow
footpaths branched in either direction, and I chose to follow the one
to the right, thinking thus to skirt the fence, and learn what was
beyond, before approaching the negro cabins on the opposite side. To
my surprise, I found myself suddenly standing on the bank of a narrow
bayou, the water clear, yet apparently motionless, the opposite shore
heavily timbered. Owing to a sharp curve I could see scarcely a
hundred yards in either direction, yet close in beside the shore a
light boat was skimming over the gray water. Even as I gazed, the
fellow plying the paddle saw me, and waved his hand. In another moment
the bow grounded on the bank and its occupant came stumbling up the
slight declivity.
He was a medium-sized, wiry-looking fellow, with olive skin and small
mustache, dressed in brown corduroy, a colored handkerchief wound about
his head in lieu of a hat. As he came to the level where I stood, he
stopped suddenly, staring into my face.
"Sacre! I thought eet vas Coombs. Who are you, M'sieur?"
"I came in last night," I replied evasively, "and was just looking
about a bit."
"So! you know Coombs, hey?"
"I 've met him--yes."
The black eyes searched my face, and I noted his right hand touch the
hilt of a knife in his belt.
"What water is this?" I asked, ignoring his action, "bayou?"
"Oui, M'sieur."
"Are we near the sea?"
"Twenty-seex mile. You not know where you are? 'Tis odd you not know,
M'sieur."
I laughed, enjoying his bewilderment, yet not realizing how to turn it
to better account.
"Oh, no. I came by train in the night, and am a little hazy as to
location. You live about here?"
"Som'time; then off again--sailor."
I nodded to prove I understood, but the man stopped uneasily.
"Whare Coombs? You know, M'sieur?"
"_No_, I don't," I acknowledged. "Asleep in his cabin likely."
The Creole, for such he undoubtedly was, made a swift resolve.
"'Tis like, M'sieur. I find out, maybe you come too!"
The last was more of an order than a question, and the fellow stepped
back slightly in a manner almost a threat. Understanding the
significance of the gesture I gave it no apparent heed, but turned in
the direction of the cabins. I had no reason to avoid Coombs; indeed,
I desired to see him, and I had no intention of permitting this lad to
suppose that I feared his veiled threats. Without so much as glancing
back at him I advanced along the footpath, my hands in my pockets. Yet
my mind leaped from point to point in eager speculation. The whole
thing was puzzling. I had come expecting a mere bit of play-acting,
with all details left in the control of others. I anticipated no more
than a few weeks of idleness, with, perhaps, the overseeing of a
plantation, to partially keep my time occupied. Instead I found myself
instantly involved in a network of mystery where even murder was part
of the play. Little as I liked Coombs, this Creole was even more
dangerous. The one was a rough, the other a venomous snake. So far as
the original purpose of my adventure was concerned it had already
largely faded from recollection. The swift recurrence of more
startling events dominated. The spirit of adventure, with which I was
liberally endowed, was fast taking possession of all my faculties.
Whatever mystery surrounded this house, whatever of crime lurked in the
neighborhood, I became determined to solve. For the moment I forgot
even Mrs. Bernard, and my own assumed character, in the excitement of
this new chase.
"Ze right; turn to ze right, M'sieur," said a voice behind me, and then
I saw Coombs standing before the door of the second cabin. Half
dressed as he was, his ever-present "gun" hung low at his hip, and his
face scowled in surprised recognition.
"What does this mean, Broussard?" he growled savagely. "Where did you
pick up that fellow?"