|RAYMOND stooped to the other's side. He called the man's name--there
was no answer. He lifted the priest's head--it sagged limply back again.
He felt quickly for the heart beat--there was no sign of life. And then
Raymond stood up again.
It was the nature of the man that, the sudden shock of his discovery
once over, he should be cool and unperturbed. His nerves were not easily
put to rout under any circumstances, and a life in the Great North,
where the raw edges were turned only too often, left him, if not
calloused, at least composed and, in a philosophical way, unmoved at the
sight before him.
“Tough luck--even for a priest!” he muttered, not irreverently. “The
man's dead, right enough.”
He glanced around him, and his eyes fixed again on the glimmer of
light through the trees. That was the tavern undoubtedly--old Mother
Blondin's, the ex_communiée_. He shrugged his shoulders, and a grim
smile flickered across his lips. She too had her quarrel with the
church, but even so she would hardly refuse temporary sanctuary to a
dead man. The priest couldn't be left here lying in the road, and if
Mother Blondin's son was not too drunk to help carry the body to
the house, it would solve the problem until word could be got to the
village.
He took up his bag--he could not be cumbered with that when he returned
to get the priest--and, the trees sparser here on what was obviously the
edge of the woods, with the window light to guide him and his flashlight
to open the way, he left the road and began to run directly toward the
light.
A hundred yards brought him out into a clearing--and then to his disgust
he discovered that, apart possibly from another rent or two in his
clothing, he had gained nothing by leaving the road. It had evidently
swung straight in toward the house from a point only a few yards further
on from where he had left the priest, for he was now alongside of it
again!
He grinned derisively at himself, slipped his flashlight into his
pocket--and, on the point of starting toward the house, which, with only
a small yard in front of it, was set practically on the edge of the road
itself, he halted abruptly. There was only one lighted window that he
could see, and this was now suddenly darkened by a shadowy form from
within, and indistinctly he could make out a face pressed close against
the window pane.
Raymond instinctively remained motionless. The face held there, peering
long and intently out into the night. It was rather strange! His own
approach could not have been heard, for the howl of the wind precluded
any possibility of that; and neither could he be seen out here in the
darkness. What was it that attracted and seemed to fascinate the watcher
at the window? Mechanically, he turned his head to look behind and
around him. There was nothing--only the trees swaying in the woods;
the scream and screech, and the shrill whistling of the wind; and, in
addition now, a rumbling bass, low, yet perfectly distinct, the sullen
roar of beating waves. He looked back at the window--the face was gone.
Raymond moved forward curiously. There was no curtain on the window,
and a step or two nearer enabled him to see within. It was a typical
bare-floored room of the _habitant_ class of smaller house that combined
a living room and kitchen in one, the front door opening directly upon
it. There was a stove at one end, with a box of cordwood beside it;
drawn against the wall was a table, upon which stood a lighted lamp;
and a little distance from the table, also against the wall, was an old,
gray-painted, and somewhat battered _armoire_, whose top was strewn with
crockeryware and glass dishes--there was little else in evidence, save a
few home-made chairs with thong-laced seats.
Raymond's brows gathered in a puzzled frown. Diagonally across the room
from the window and directly opposite the stove was a closed door, and
here, back turned, the man who had been peering out of the window--for
the man was the only occupant of the room--was crouched with his ear
against the panel. His bewilderment growing, Raymond watched the other.
The man straightened up after a moment, faced around into the room, and,
swaying slightly, a vicious smile of satisfaction on his lips, moved
stealthily in the direction of the table.
And now Raymond had no difficulty in recognising the man from the
station agent's vivid, if cursory, description. It was Mother Blondin's
son. A devil, the agent had called the other--and the man looked it! An
ugly white scar straggled from cheek bone to twisted lip, the eyes were
narrow and close set, the hair shaggy, and the long arms dangling from a
powerful frame made Raymond think of a gorilla.
Reaching the table, the man paused, looked furtively all around the
room, and again appeared to be listening intently; then he stretched out
his hand and turned the lamp half down.
Raymond's frown deepened. The other was undoubtedly more or less drunk,
but that did not explain the peculiar and, as it were, ominous way
in which he was acting. What was the man up to? And where was Mother
Blondin?
The man moved down the room in the direction of the stove; and, the
light dim now, Raymond stepped close to the window for a better view.
The man halted at the end of the room, once more looked quickly all
about him, gazed fixedly for an instant at the closed door where
previously he had held his ear to the panel--and reached suddenly up
above his head, the fingers of both hands working and clawing in a
sort of mad haste at an interstice in the wall where the rough-squared
timbers came imperfectly together.
And then Raymond smiled sardonically. He understood now. It was old
Mother Blondin's “stocking”! She had perhaps not been as generous as the
son considered she might have been! The man was engaged in the filial
occupation of robbing his own mother!
“Worthy offspring--if the old dame doesn't belie her reputation!”
muttered Raymond--and stepped to the front door. “However, it's an ill
wind that blows nobody good, and, if the priest suffered, Mother Blondin
can at least thank my interruption incident thereto for the salvage of
her cash.” He opened the door and walked in coolly. “Good evening!” he
said pleasantly.
The man whirled from the wall--and with a scream, half of pain and half
of startled, furious surprise, was jerked back against the wall again.
His hand was caught as though in a trap. The hiding place had quite
evidently been intended by Mother Blondin for no larger a hand than her
own! The man had obviously wormed and wriggled his hand in between the
timbers--and his hand would not come out with any greater ease than it
had gone in! He wrenched at it, snarling and cursing now, stamping with
his feet, and hurling his maledictions at Raymond's head.
“It is not my fault, my friend,” said Raymond calmly. “Shall I help
you?”
He started forward--and stopped halfway across the room. The man had
torn his hand loose, sending a rain of coin clinking to the floor, and,
fluttering after it like falling leaves, a score or two of banknotes
as well; and now, leaping around, he snatched up a heavy piece of the
cordwood, and, swinging it about his head, his face working murderously,
sprang toward Raymond.
The bag dropped from Raymond's hand, and his face hardened. He had not
bargained for this, but if----
With a snarl and an oath the man was upon him; the cordwood whistled in
its downward sweep, aimed full at his head. He parried the blow with his
forearm, and, with a lightning-like movement, side-stepped and sent his
right fist crashing to the other's jaw.
It staggered the man for an instant--but only for an instant. Bellowing
with rage, dropping the cordwood, heedless of the blows that Raymond
battered into his face, by sheer bulk and weight he closed, his arms
circling Raymond's neck, his fingers feeling for a throat-hold.
Around the room they staggered, swaying, lurching. The man was half
drunk, and, caught in the act of thievery, his fury was demoniacal.
Again and again Raymond tried to throw the other off. The man was
too big, too powerful for close quarters, and his only chance was an
opportunity to use his fists. They panted heavily, the breath of the one
hot on the other's cheek; and then, as they swung, Raymond was conscious
that the door of the rear room was open, and that a woman was standing
on the threshold. It was only a glance he got--of an old hag-like face,
of steel-rimmed spectacles, of tumbling and dishevelled gray hair--the
man's fingers at last were tightening like a vise around his throat.
But the other, too, had seen the woman.
“_Voleur!_ Thief!” he yelled hoarsely. “Smash him on the head with the
stick, mother, while I hold him!”
“You devil!” gritted Raymond--and with a wrench, a twist, his strength
massed for the one supreme effort, he tore himself loose, hurling the
other backward and away from him.
There was a crash of breaking glass as the man smashed into the
_armoire_; a wild laugh from the woman in the doorway--and, for the
first time, a cry from Raymond's lips. The man snatched up a revolver
from the top of the _armoire_.
But quick as the other was, Raymond was quicker as he sprang and
clutched at the man's hand. His face was sternly white now with the
consciousness that he was fighting for no less than his life. Here,
there, now across the room, now back again they reeled and stumbled,
struggling for possession of the weapon, as Raymond strove to tear it
from his antagonist's grasp. And now the woman, screaming, ran forward
and picked up the piece of cordwood, and circling them, screaming still,
aimed her blows at Raymond.
One struck him on the head, dazing him a little... his brain began to
whirl... he could not wrench the revolver from the man's hand... it
seemed as though he had been trying through an eternity... his hands
seemed to be losing their strength... another desperate jerk from
the other like that and his hold would be gone, the revolver in the
unfettered possession of this whisky-maddened brute, whose lips, like
fangs, were flecked with slaver, in whose eyes, bloodshot, burned the
light of murder... his fingers were slipping from their grip, and----
There was a blinding flash; the roar of the report; the revolver
clattered to the floor; a great, ungainly bulk seemed to Raymond to
waver and sway before him in most curious fashion, then totter and crash
with an impact that shook the house--or was it that ghastly, howling
wind!--to the ground.
Raymond reeled back against the _armoire_, and hung there gasping,
panting for his breath, sweeping his hand again and again across his
forehead. He was abominably dizzy. The room was swinging around and
around; there were two figures, now on the ceiling, now on the floor--a
man who lay flat on his back with his arms and legs grotesquely
extended, and whose shirt was red-splotched; and a hag with streaming
gray hair, who rocked and crooned over the other.
“Dead! Dead! Dead!”--the wail rose into a high and piercing falsetto.
The hag was on her feet and running wildly for the front door. “Murder!
Thief! Murder! Murder!”
The horrible screeching died away; and a gust of wind, swirling in
through the door that blew open after the woman, took up the refrain:
“Murder--murder--_murder!_”
His head ached and swam. He was conscious that he should set his wits at
work, that he should think--that somehow he was in peril. He groped his
way unsteadily to where his bag lay on the floor. As he reached it, the
wind blew the lamp out. He felt around inside the bag, found his flask,
and drank greedily.
The stimulant cleared his brain. He stood up, and stared around him in
the darkness. His mind was active enough now--grimly active. If he were
caught, he would swing for murder! He had only acted in self-defence, he
had not even fired the shot, the revolver had gone off in the man's
own hand--but there wasn't a chance for him, if he were caught. The
old hag's testimony that he had come there as a thief--that was what
undoubtedly she believed, and undoubtedly what she would swear--would
damn him. And--cursed irony!--that conversation with the station
agent, innocent enough then, would corroborate her now! Nor had he any
reputation to fall back upon to bolster up his story if he faced the
issue and told the truth. Reputation! He could not even give a plausible
account of himself without making matters worse. A gambler from the
Klondike! The _roué_ of Montreal! Would that save him!
His only hope was to run for it--and at once. It could not be very far
to the village, and it would not be long before that precious old hag
had alarmed the community and returned with the villagers at her heels.
But where would he go? There were no trains! It would be a man-hunt
through the woods, and with so meagre a start that sooner or later they
would get him. And even if he evaded them at first he would have no
chance to get very far away from that locality, and ultimately he would
have to reckon on the arrival of the police. It was probable that old
Mother Blondin could not recognise him again, for the light had been
turned down and she was partially blind; and he was certain that the
station agent would not know his face again either--but both could, and
would, supply a general description of his dress, appearance and
build that would serve equally as well to apprehend him in that thinly
populated country where, under such circumstances, to be even a stranger
was sufficient to invite suspicion.
Well, if to run for it was his only chance, he would take it! He stooped
for his bag, and, in the act, stood suddenly motionless in a rigid sort
of way. No! There was perhaps another plan! It seemed to Raymond that
he held his breath in suspense until his brain should pass judgment upon
it. The priest! The dead priest, only a little way off out there on the
road! No--it was not visionary, nor wild, nor mad. If they _found_ the
man that they supposed had murdered the old woman's son, they would
not search any further. That was absurdly obvious! The priest was not
expected until to-morrow. The only person who knew that the priest had
arrived, and who knew of his, Raymond's, arrival, was the station agent.
But the quarry once run to earth, there would be no reason for anybody,
as might otherwise be the case in a far-flung pursuit, going to the
station on a night like this. The priest's arrival therefore would not
become known to the villagers until the next morning at the earliest,
and quite probably not until much later, when some one from the village
should drive over to meet the train by which he was expected to arrive.
As a minimum, therefore, that gave him ten or twelve hours' start--and
with ten or twelve hours free from pursuit, he could take very good care
of the “afterwards”! Yes, it was the way! The only way! From what
the priest had said in the train, it was evident that he was a total
stranger here, and so, being unknown, the deception would not be
discovered until the station agent told his story. Furthermore, the
wound in the priest's head from the falling limb of the tree would be
attributed to the blow the old hag had struck _him_ on the head with the
cordwood! The inference, plausible enough, would be that he had run from
the house wounded, only to drop at last to the ground on the spot
where the priest, _dressed as the murderer_, was found! And
besides--yes--there was other evidence he could add! The revolver, for
instance!
Quick now, his mind made up, Raymond snatched the flashlight from his
pocket, swept the ray around the floor, located the weapon, and, running
to it, picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Every second was counting now. It might be five, or ten, or fifteen
minutes before they got back from the village, he did not know--but
every moment was priceless. There was still work to be done out there on
the road, even after he was through here!
He was across the room now by the rear wall, gathering up the coins
and bills that the dead man had scattered on the floor. These, like the
revolver, he transferred to his pocket. A thief, had been their cry.
That was the motive! Well, he would corroborate it! There would be no
mistake--until to-morrow--about their having found the guilty man!
His hand was a slimmer hand than Blondin's--it slipped easily into the
chink between the timbers. It was like a hollow bowl inside, and there
was more money there. He scooped it out. Twice his hand went in again,
until the hiding place was empty; and then, running back across the
room, he grabbed up his bag, and rushed from the house.
An instant he paused to listen as he reached the road; but there was
only the howl of the storm, no sound that he could hear as yet from the
direction of the village--though, full of ominous possibilities, he did
not know how far away the village was!
He ran on again at top speed, flashing his way along with his light, the
wind at his back aiding him now. It would not matter if a stray gleam
were seen by any one, if he could only complete his work in time--it
would only be proof, instead of inference, that the murderer had run
from the house along the road to the spot where he was found.
He reached the priest, set down his bag, and, taking up the broken limb
of the tree, carried it ten yards away around the turn of the road, and
flung it in amongst the trees; then he was back once more, and bending
over the priest. He worked swiftly now, but coolly and with grim
composure, removing the priest's outer garments. He noted with intense
relief that there was no blood on the clerical collar--that the blood,
due to the twisted position of the other's head, had trickled from the
cheek directly to the ground. It would have been an awkward thing--blood
on the collar!
It was not easy work. The limp form seemed a ton-weight in his arms, as
he lifted it now this way, now that, to get off the other's clothes. And
at times he recoiled from it, though the stake he was playing for was
his life. It was unnerving business, and the hideous moaning of the wind
made it worse. And mostly he must work by the sense of touch, for he
could not hold the flashlight and still use both hands. But it was done
at last, and now he took off his own clothes, and hastily donned the
priest's.
He must be careful now--a single slip, something overlooked in his
pockets perhaps might ruin everything, and the ten or twelve hours'
start, that was all he asked for, would be lost; but, equally, the
pockets must not be too bare! He was hurriedly going through his
discarded garments now. Mother Blondin's money and the revolver, of
course, must be found there.
The cardcase, yes, that could not do any harm... there were no letters,
no one ever wrote to him... the trifling odds and ends must be left in
the pockets too, they lent colour if nothing else... but his own money
was quite a different matter, and he had the big sum in bills of large
denominations with him that he had exchanged for the pokes of gold dust
which he had brought from the Yukon. He tucked this money securely away
under the _soutane_ he was now wearing, and once more bent over the
priest.
He had now to dress the priest in his, Raymond's, clothes. It was not
readily accomplished; it was even more difficult than it had been
to undress the man; and besides, as he worked now, he found himself
fighting to maintain his coolness against a sort of reckless haste to
have done with it that was creeping upon him. It seemed that he had been
hours at the work, that with every second now the villagers in full cry
must come upon him. Curse it, could he never button that collar and knot
that tie! Why did the man's head wobble like that! The vest now! Now the
coat!
He stood up finally at the end, and flirted his hand across his brow.
His forehead was clammy wet. He shivered a little; then, lips tight, he
pulled himself together. He must make certain, absolutely certain that
he had done nothing, or left nothing undone to rob him of those few
precious hours that were so necessary to his escape.
He nodded after a moment in a kind of ghastly approval--he had even hung
the other's crucifix around his neck! There remained only the exchange
of hats, and--yes, the bag--was there anything in the bag that would
betray him? He dropped his own hat on the ground a yard away from the
priest's head where the other's hat had rolled, picked up the priest's
hat, and put it on--then bent down over the bag.
He lifted his head suddenly, straining his ears to listen. What was
that! Only the howl and unearthly moaning of the wind? It must have
been, and his nerves were becoming over-strung, for the wind was blowing
from the direction of the village, and it seemed as though the sound he
had thought he heard, that he could not have defined, had come from the
other direction. But the bag! Was there anything in it that he should
not leave? He turned the flashlight into its interior, began to rummage
through its contents--and then, kneeling there, it was as though he were
suddenly frozen into that posture, bereft of all power of movement.
It was only a lantern--but it seemed as though he were bathed in
a blistering flood of light that poured full upon him, that burst
suddenly, without warning, from around the turn of the road in the
direction away from the village. He felt the colour ebb from his face;
he knew a sickly consciousness of doom. He was caught--caught in the
priest's clothes! Shadowy outlined there, was a horse and wagon. A
woman, carrying the lantern, was running toward him--a man followed
behind. The wind rose in demoniacal derision--the damnable wind that,
responsible for everything that night, had brought this crowning
disaster upon him!
A girl's voice rang out anxiously:
“What is it? Oh, what is it? What has happened?” Raymond felt himself
grow unnaturally calm. He leaned solicitously over the priest's form.
“I do not know”--he was speaking with sober concern. “I found this man
lying here as I came along. He has a wound of some sort in his head, and
I am afraid that he is dead.”
The man, stepping forward, crossed himself hurriedly.
The girl, with a sharp little cry, knelt down on the other side of the
priest--and in the lantern's glimmer Raymond caught a glimpse of great
dark eyes, of truant hair, wind-tossed, that blew about a young, sweet
face that was full now of troubled sympathy.
“And you,” she said quickly; “you are the new curé, monsieur. The
station agent told us you had come, and we drove fast, my uncle and I,
to try and catch up with you.”
Raymond's eyes were on the priest's form. There was no need to simulate
concern now, it was genuine enough, and it was as if something cold and
icy were closing around his heart. He was not sure--great God, it was
not possible!--but he thought--he thought the priest had moved. If that
were so, he was doubly trapped! Cries came suddenly from the direction
of the village, from the direction of old Mother Blondin's house. He
heard himself acknowledging her remark with grave deliberation.
“Yes,” he said, “I am Father Aubert.”