THE STENOGRAPHER'S SUSPICIONS
Herbert stood gazing at the slip of paper in his hand. He did not know
what to make of it. Then he looked up at the window whence it had been
thrown. There was no sign of life there. Whoever had tossed out the
mysterious message had disappeared again behind the dark shutters.
"Well, this gets me," murmured the boy. "I wonder what it means? Is it
a joke; or something serious?"
Then another idea came to him.
"It's written on a typewriter!" he exclaimed. "I wonder if it could
have been done by Mort Decker? Perhaps he is in trouble there with
Muchmore. Maybe the man has him locked up. Had I better tell the
authorities?"
Then, as he looked at the message again, he had a different thought.
"No, Mort couldn't have written it," he said to himself. "He knows how
to work a typewriter, and he'd use capitals in the places where they
belong. And, besides, this message isn't finished. Whoever wrote it
had to stop before he was through. I wonder what the rest of that word
is. 'Priso--' Maybe it's meant for 'poisoned' and it's spelled wrong.
I wish--"
But the boy's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a noise at a
window over his head. Thinking the person who had thrown out the
mysterious message was again about to open the shutters, Bert watched
anxiously, but, instead, a window on the second floor opened and Mort
Decker leaned out.
"Hello!" began Bert.
"Hush!" exclaimed Mort, placing his fingers over his lips as an
additional signal of caution. "Get away from here, Bert; Mr. Muchmore
is coming!"
"But," went on the boy, "I have--"
"Don't say a word. Hurry away. I'll try to see you to-night, at the
barn. Go, before--"
He did not finish the sentence, but hurriedly shut the shutters, and
closed the window. Bert took the hint, and glided into the woods,
where he could not be observed. He gave one look back at the
mysterious house, and once more he saw that the window, from which
Mort had looked, was open. But the stenographer did not peer forth.
Instead, the face of Muchmore appeared. The man looked around
carefully, as if to see if anyone had been communicating with inmates
of the house. Then, apparently satisfied, as he saw nothing
suspicious, he pulled the shutters tightly together, and closed the
window.
"Well, things are happening in a bunch," thought Bert, as he made his
way toward the village. "First I get a queer message I can't make head
or tail of, and then Mort warns me away from the house. I wonder what
he wants to tell me to-night? It must have something to do with the
Stockton place."
Bert almost wished that a fire alarm might come in, so that the time
would pass more quickly. But the day dragged along, and there was no
occasion for taking out either of the engines.
After supper, as was his custom, the young chief visited the two
fire-houses, to see that both apparatuses were in readiness for a run in
the night. The tanks were kept filled, and the lanterns were lighted
as soon as it grew dark.
Bert first went to the town hall, where, in the basement, he found
Vincent and several members of "Corps No. 2," as it was known.
"Well, boys, all ready for a blaze?" asked Bert. "How's the machine,
Vincent?"
"All right, I guess. We thought we were going to have a run, a while
ago."
"How's that?"
"Pile of shavings near Sagger's new butcher shop caught fire, and made
a lot of smoke. He came running in here, and wanted us to take the
engine out, but I saw it didn't amount to anything, and I didn't want
to waste a lot of chemicals on a blaze like that."
"What did you do?"
"We put it out with a few pails of water. He could have done the same,
only he was too excited."
"And he is the man who said the bucket brigade was good enough,"
observed John Boll.
"I guess he's changed his mind," remarked Bert. "I'm going over to
Cole's barn," he added. "It's my night on duty."
Bert found Cole and several of his chums engaged in games of checkers
and dominoes in the barn, which had been fitted up as much as possible
like a fire-house. Bert greeted his chums, and then sat down, to
await, with what patience he could, the promised arrival of Mort.
"I hope he comes," thought the boy. "I'd like to get at the bottom of
this."
It was nearly nine o'clock when Mort looked in at the open door of the
barn and nodded to Bert.
"I'll be back in a little while, boys," said the young chief, as he
followed the stenographer outside. There was an oil lamp in the
driveway leading to the street, and Bert, pausing under it, pulled out
the queer slip of paper, and showed it to Mort.
"I thought maybe you might know something about this," he said.
"Where did you get it?"
"I picked it up right near where you saw me, under the window. Some
one threw it out."
"So, that's why you were there, eh? I couldn't imagine. I thought you
were trying to find out something about that house of mystery."
"So I was. Why did you warn me away?"
"Because, as I told you, Muchmore was right there. I happened to see
you when I was at work, in the place he has fitted up as an office,
and I didn't want you to get into trouble. You were on his private
land, and he would just as soon as not have you arrested."
"I'm not afraid of that. But what do you make of this message?"
Mort, who had not closely examined the paper before, started as he
caught sight of it.
"Why, that was written on my typewriter!" he exclaimed. "I mean on the
one Muchmore bought for me to use. I can tell, because the letter 'e'
prints a little bit out of alignment."
"Who wrote it?" asked Bert. "What do you make of it?"
"I don't know who wrote it. Some one must have gone to my typewriter
when I was away, or maybe it was done at night."
"Could it have been the old housekeeper?" asked Bert. "Maybe she is in
trouble, and this looks like an appeal for aid."
"No. Mrs. Blarcum is afraid to touch the machine. Besides, she doesn't
even know how to put the paper in."
"Muchmore wouldn't have tossed out a message like that, I suppose?"
"No. Besides, he knows how to work the machine, and he'd use the
proper lettering. Anyhow, he'd have no occasion to do such a thing."
"Then what can it be?" inquired Bert, much puzzled.
"Certainly someone is in trouble," agreed Mort. "The word 'help' shows
that. Properly written the message would look like this, and on the
back of the paper he wrote:
"Help! I am a priso"
"What's that last word?" asked Bert. "I thought it might have been
meant for 'poison.' What do you think?"
Mort was silent a moment. Then he exclaimed:
"I have it! It's 'prisoner'! That's what it is!"
"Prisoner?"
"Yes."
"But who could be imprisoned there?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's a lunatic, or some poor fellow whom Muchmore
has fleeced out of all his money by gambling."
"Then he is a gambler?"
"Yes; but how did you know?"
"Well, it is rumored so in the village."
"Yes. He is a gambler, and something more. I believe he is a worse
criminal. He has had several gambling parties at his house. Men come
after dark, in automobiles, along the private road. Sometimes they
arrive in the motor boat from the other side of the lake. They don't
pass through the village at all. Oh, I see and hear things that
Muchmore never suspects I know about."
"But what makes you think he is a criminal?"
"Because he has had me doing some queer work lately."
"What kind?"
"Making copies of old deeds and mortgages. Now, no man has deeds and
mortgages copied unless he is going to dispose of property, and all
this property is in the name of Harris Stockton, his uncle. I believe
Muchmore is up to some crooked game."
"But where is Mr. Stockton?"
"That's what I can't find out. Muchmore says he is in Europe, and I
often write for him letters addressed to his uncle, which are directed
to different cities in France and Germany. But Muchmore always mails
them himself. I don't know where Mr. Stockton is. If I did I'd send
him word of what is going on in his house, and what I suspect his
nephew is up to."
"But what about this queer message?" asked Bert.
"I'm sure I don't know what to say. There is some mystery about it. I
will try and get on the track of it, but to do that I must get up on
the top floor, and that is a place Muchmore carefully guards. Perhaps
you can help me."
"I'm afraid not, but I'll try."
"Do," urged the stenographer. "I'll see you again, and--"
At that instant the fire alarm began ringing, and Bert rushed back to
the barn.