THE PLACARD
The look that she had given him showed her sense of his sympathy. So he
ventured,
"Did you hear from your father before he died?"
"Aunt Tillie did,--once. Then we got word he'd been killed in a railway
accident out West. I was glad. A man like that has no right to live."
"You and Aunt Tillie have had a pretty hard time----" he mused.
"Yes. She's an angel--and I love her. Why is it that good people have
nothin' but trouble? She had an uncle who went bad too--he was younger
than she was--my great-uncle--Jack Bray--he forged a check--or somethin'
up in Newark--and went to the penitentiary."
"And is he dead too?"
"No--not at last accounts. He's out--somewhere. When I was little he
used to come to Aunt Tillie for money--a tall, lantern-jawed man. I saw
him once three years ago. He was here. Aunt Tillie tried to keep me out
of the kitchen. But I thought he was up to some funny business and
stayed. He took a fancy to me. He said he was camera man in the movies.
He wanted me to go with him--thought I could be as good as Mary
Pickford. I'm glad I didn't go--from what I know now. He was a bad man.
Aunt Tillie was scared of him. Poor soul! She gave him all she had--most
of what was left from the old farm, I guess."
"Do you think----" began Peter, then paused. And as she glanced at him
inquiringly, "Did you notice that your Aunt Tillie seemed--er--frightened
last night?" he asked at last.
"I thought so for a while, but she said she was only sick. She never
lies to me."
"She seemed very much disturbed."
"Her nerve's not what it used to be--especially since Mr. McGuire's
taken to seein' things----"
"You don't believe then that she could have seen John Bray--that he had
come back again last night?"
"Why, no," said Beth, turning in surprise. "I never thought of it--and
yet," she paused, "yes,--it might have been----"
She became more thoughtful but didn't go on. Peter was on the trail of a
clew to the mystery, but she had already told him so much that further
questions seemed like personal intrusion. And so,
"I'd like to tell you, Beth," he said, "that I'm your friend and Mrs.
Bergen's. If anything should turn up to make you unhappy or to make your
aunt unhappy and I can help you, won't you let me know?"
"Why--do you think anything is goin' to happen?" she asked.
His reply was noncommittal.
"I just wanted you to know you could count on me----" he said soberly.
"I think you've had trouble enough."
"But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she said with a shrug, "even if Aunt
Tillie is. He can't do anything to me. He can't _make_ me go to New York
if I don't want to."
She had clenched her brown fists in her excitement and Peter laughed.
"I think I'd be a little sorry for anybody who tried to make you do
anything you didn't want to do," he said.
She frowned. "Why, if I thought that bandy-legged, lantern-jawed, old
buzzard was comin' around here frightenin' Aunt Tillie, I'd--I'd----"
"What would you do?"
"Never you mind what I'd do. But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she
finished confidently.
The terrors that had been built up around the house of McGuire, the
mystery surrounding the awe-inspiring prowler, the night vigils, the
secrecy--all seemed to fade into a piece of hobbledehoy buffoonery at
Beth's contemptuous description of her recreant relative. And he smiled
at her amusedly.
"But what would you say," he asked seriously, "if I told you that last
night Mr. McGuire saw the same person your Aunt Tillie did, and that he
was terrified--almost to the verge of collapse?"
Beth had risen, her eyes wide with incredulity.
"Merciful Father! McGuire! Did he have another spell last night? You
don't mean----?"
"I went up to his room. He was done for. He had seen outside the
drawing-room window the face of the very man he's been guarding himself
against."
"I can't believe----," she gasped. "And you think Aunt Tillie----?"
"Your Aunt Tillie talked to a man outside the door of the kitchen. You
didn't hear her. I did. The same man who had been frightening Mr.
McGuire."
"Aunt Tillie!" she said in astonishment.
"There's not a doubt of it. McGuire saw him. Andy saw him too,--thought
he was the chauffeur."
Beth's excitement was growing with the moments.
"Why, Aunt Tillie didn't know anything about what was frightening Mr.
McGuire--no more'n I did," she gasped.
"She knows now. She wasn't sick last night, Beth. She was just
bewildered--frightened half out of her wits. I spoke to her after you
went home. She wouldn't say a word. She was trying to conceal something.
But there was a man outside and she knows who he is."
"But what could Jack Bray have to do with Mr. McGuire?" she asked in
bewilderment.
Peter shrugged. "You know as much as I do. I wouldn't have told you this
if you'd been afraid. But Mrs. Bergen is."
"Well, did you _ever?_"
"No, I never did," replied Peter, smiling.
"It does beat _anything_."
"It does. It's most interesting, but as far as I can see, hardly
alarming for you, whatever it may be to Mr. McGuire or Mrs. Bergen. If
the man is only your great-uncle, there ought to be a way to deal with
him----"
"I've just got to talk to Aunt Tillie," Beth broke in, moving toward the
door. Peter followed her, taking up his hat.
"I'll go with you," he said.
For a few moments Beth said nothing. She had passed through the stages
of surprise, anger and bewilderment, and was now still indignant but
quite self-contained. When he thought of Beth's description of the Ghost
of Black Rock House, Peter was almost tempted to forget the terrors of
the redoubtable McGuire. A man of his type hardly lapses into hysteria
at the mere thought of a "bandy-legged buzzard." And yet McGuire's
terrors had been so real and were still so real that it was hardly
conceivable that Bray could have been the cause of them. Indeed it was
hardly conceivable that the person Beth described could be a source of
terror to any one. What was the answer?
"Aunt Tillie doesn't know anything about McGuire," Beth said suddenly.
"She just couldn't know. She tells me everything."
"But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have
met in New York----"
"What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully.
Peter laughed.
"It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters."
"I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe
it."
They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had
been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns,
stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing.
Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far
from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener
than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it.
They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was
scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's
neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side
by side, and intensely interested, they read:
TO MIKE MCGUIRE
I'VE COME BACK.
YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE GOT AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'VE GOT.
ACT PRONTO. I'LL COME FOR MY ANSWER AT ELEVEN FRIDAY
NIGHT--AT THIS TREE. NO TRICKS. IF THERE'S NO
ANSWER--YOU KNOW WHAT I'LL DO.
HAWK.
"Hawk!" muttered Beth, "who on earth----?"
"Another----," said Peter cryptically.
"You see!" cried Beth triumphantly, "I knew it couldn't be Jack Bray!"
"This chap seems to be rather in earnest, doesn't he? _Pronto!_ That
means haste."
"But it's only a joke. It must be," cried Beth.
Peter loosened the knife, took the placard down and turned it over,
examining it critically.
"I wonder." And then, thoughtfully, "No, I don't believe it is. It's
addressed to McGuire. I'm going to take it to him."
"Mike McGuire," corrected Beth. And then, "But it really does look
queer."
"It does," assented Peter; "it appears to me as if this message must
have come from the person McGuire saw last night."
Beth looked bewildered.
"But what has Aunt Tillie got to do with--with Hawk? She never knew
anybody of that name."
"Probably not. It isn't a real name, of course."
"Then why should it frighten Mr. McGuire?" she asked logically.
Peter shook his head. All the props had fallen from under his theories.
"Whether it's real to McGuire or not is what I want to know. And I'm
going to find out," he finished.
When they reached a path which cut through the trees toward the creek,
Beth stopped, and held out her hand.
"I'm not goin' up to the house with you and I don't think I'll see Aunt
Tillie just now," she said. "Good-by, Mr.----"
"Peter----," he put in.
"Good-by, Mr. Peter."
"Just Peter----" he insisted.
"Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come
again?"
"Yes. And I'm going to get you some music----"
"Singin' music?" she gasped.
He nodded.
"And you'll let me know if I can help--Aunt Tillie or you?"
She bobbed her head and was gone.
Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had
disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment
drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult
to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit
proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear
him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his
promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his
assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this
sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute
and confidence that had ever been paid him--at least by a woman. A visit
of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost
any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived
would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender.
The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That
the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he
might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had
never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments
had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after
that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in
Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else.
And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished,
to conceal his warm admiration for her physical beauty. She had been
very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take
her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he
experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a
temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him.... Idealism? Perhaps. The
same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo
were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them--that
had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia
herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child--and
one is always gentle with children.
He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming
with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an
afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it
merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who
knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous
voice. He would have to develop it. He really would.
All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing
the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He
read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording.
Blackmail? Probably. The "_pronto_" was significant. This message could
hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of
movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of
villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey
upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt
such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a
hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last
night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs.
Bergen? And if so, how and where had she known him without Beth's being
aware of it? And why should Beth be involved in the danger?
Peter was slowly coming to the belief that there had been two men
outside the house last night, "Hawk" and John Bray. And yet it seemed
scarcely possible that the men on guard should not have seen the second
man and that both men could have gotten away without leaving a trace.
And where was the man with the black mustache? Was he John Bray?
Impossible. It was all very perplexing. But here in his hand he held the
tangible evidence of McGuire's fears. "You know what I've got and I know
what you've got." The sentence seemed to have a cabalistic
significance--a pact--a threat which each man held over the other.
Perhaps it wasn't money only that "Hawk" wanted. Whatever it was, he
meant to have it, and soon. The answer the man expected was apparently
something well understood between himself and McGuire, better understood
perhaps since the day McGuire had seen him in New York and had fled in
terror to Sheldon, Senior's, office. And if McGuire didn't send the
desired answer to the tree by Friday night, there would be the very
devil to pay--if not "Hawk."
Peter was to be the bearer of ill tidings and with them, he knew, all
prospect of a business discussion would vanish. The situation interested
him, as all things mysterious must, and he could not forget that he was,
for the present, part policeman, part detective; but forestry was his
real job here and every day that passed meant so many fewer days in
which to build the fire towers. And these he considered to be a prime
necessity to the security of the estate.
He rolled the placard up and went toward the house. On the lawn he
passed the young people, intent upon their own pursuits. He was glad
that none of them noticed him and meeting Stryker, who was hovering
around the lower hall, he sent his name up to his employer.
"I don't think Mr. McGuire expects you just yet, sir," said the man.
"Nevertheless, tell him I must see him," said Peter. "It's important."
Though it was nearly two o'clock, McGuire was not yet dressed and his
looks when Peter was admitted to him bespoke a long night of anxiety and
vigil. Wearing an incongruous flowered dressing gown tied at the waist
with a silken cord, he turned to the visitor.
"Well," he said rather peevishly.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. McGuire, but something has happened that
I thought----"
"What's happened?" the other man snapped out, eying the roll of
cardboard in Peter's hand. "What----?" he gasped.
Peter smiled and shrugged coolly.
"It may be only a joke, sir--and I hardly know whether I'm even
justified in calling it to your attention, but I found this placard
nailed to a tree near the path to the Cabin."
"Placard!" said McGuire, his sharp glance noting the printing of the
trespass sign. "Of course--that's the usual warning----"
"It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it
carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast
tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure.
McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though
fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his
face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around
his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the
extraordinary document were far from steady. The gay flowers of the
dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed
suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the
dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly
awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred
and turned slowly in the chair.
"You--you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly.
"Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this
hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire.
McGuire took the knife--twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A
hasp-knife," he repeated dully.
"I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on
account of----"
"Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he
said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on
guard.
"If there's nothing else just now, I'll----"
"Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one
else see this--this paper?"
"Yes--Mrs. Bergen's niece--she saw it first."
"My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?"
"I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written."
"Ah----" muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently.
"Where--where is the tree on which you found it?"
"A maple--just in the wood--at the foot of the lawn."
"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his
hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single
tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced
the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author
of them.
"G---- d---- you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.
"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.
McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It
can't--be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He
was showing his early breeding now.
"I might 'a' known----," he said aloud, staring at the paper.
"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.
"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it
talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a
woman read it?"
"Yes."
"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my
affairs."
"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if
there's anything I can do----"
McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance
wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed
to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening
intently.
"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within
call."
The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely
bowed his head and obeyed.
"I suppose you're--you're curious about this message, Nichols--coming in
such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.
"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could
to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."
"He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've
got to put a stop to it--and to him."
"He speaks of coming again Friday night----"
"Yes--yes--Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard,
"I've got to do what he wants--this time--just this time----"
McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched
from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,
"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I--I'll have
to tell you more. I--I think--I'll need you--to help me."
Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the
imminent revelations.
"I may say that--this--this 'Hawk' is a--an enemy of mine, Nichols--a
bitter enemy--unscrupulous--a man better dead than alive. I--I wish to
God you'd shot him last night."
"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.
"I--I've got to do what he wants--this time. I can't have this sort of
thing goin' on--with everybody in Black Rock reading these damn things.
You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?"
"I'd be pretty sure of that----"
"But she might--any time--if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop
that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further."
"I think you may trust me."
"Yes. I think I can. I've _got_ to trust you now, whether I want to or
no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get
away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very
strange. It is strange. I knew this man--called 'Hawk,' many years ago.
I--I thought he was dead, but he's come back."
McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which
so clearly announced that fact.
"He speaks of something I've got--something he's got, Nichols. It's a
paper--a--er--a partnership paper we drew up years ago--out West and
signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it
I----," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds
it as a--well--not exactly as a threat--but as a kind of menace to my
happiness and Peggy's."
"I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short."
"Exactly--er--blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars--in New York. I
refused him--there's no end to blackmail once you yield--and I came down
here--but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him."
"If you were sure he had it with him----"
"That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere.
I've got to get this money for him--from New York--I haven't got it in
the house--before Friday night----"
"But blackmail----!"
"I've got to, Nichols--this time. I've got to."
"I wouldn't, sir," said Peter stoutly.
"But you don't know everything. I've only told you part," said McGuire,
almost whining. "This is no ordinary case--no ordinary blackmail. I've
got to be quick. I'm going to get the money--I'm going to get you to go
to New York and get it."
"Me!"
"Yes. Yes. This is Wednesday. I can't take any chances of not having it
here Friday. Peggy is going back this afternoon. I'll get her to drive
you up. I'll 'phone Sheldon to expect you--he'll give you the money and
you can come back to-morrow."
"But to-night----"
"He knows the danger of trying to reach me. That's why he wrote this. I
won't be bothered to-night. I'll shut the house tight and put some of
the men inside. If he comes, we'll shoot."
"But Friday----Do you mean, sir, that you'll go out to him with five
thousand dollars and risk----"
"No, I won't. _You_ will," said McGuire, watching Peter's face craftily.
"Oh, I see," replied Peter, aware that he was being drawn more deeply
into the plot than he had wished. "You want me to meet him."
McGuire noted Peter's dubious tone and at once got up and laid his hands
upon his shoulders.
"You'll do this for me, won't you, Nichols? I don't want to see this
man. I can't explain. There wouldn't be any danger. He hasn't anything
against you. Why should he have? I haven't any one else that I can
trust--but Stryker. And Stryker--well--I'd have to tell Stryker. _You_
know already. Don't say you refuse. It's--it's a proof of my confidence.
You're just the man I want here. I'll make it worth your while to stay
with me--well worth your while."
Peter was conscious of a feeling partly of pity, partly of contempt, for
the cringing creature pawing at his shoulders. Peter had never liked to
be pawed. It had always rubbed him the wrong way. But McGuire's need was
great and pity won.
"Oh, I'll do it if you like," he said, turning aside and releasing
himself from the clinging fingers, "provided I assume no
responsibility----"
"That's it. No responsibility," said McGuire, in a tone of relief.
"You'll just take that money out--then come away----"
"And get nothing in return?" asked Peter in surprise. "No paper--no
receipt----?"
"No--just this once, Nichols. It will keep him quiet for a month or so.
In the meanwhile----" The old man paused, a crafty look in his eyes,
"In the meanwhile we'll have time to devise a way to meet this
situation."
"Meaning--precisely what?" asked Peter keenly.
McGuire scowled at him and then turned away toward the window.
"That needn't be your affair."
"It won't be," said Peter quickly. "I'd like you to remember that I came
here as a forester and superintendent. I agreed also to guard your house
and yourself from intrusion, but if it comes to the point of----"
"There, there, Nichols," croaked McGuire, "don't fly off the handle.
We'll just cross this bridge first. I--I won't ask you to do anything
a--a gentleman shouldn't."
"Oh, well, sir," said Peter finally, "that's fair enough."
McGuire came over and faced Peter, his watery eyes seeking Peter's.
"You'll swear, Nichols, to say nothing of this to any one?"
"Yes. I'll keep silent."
"Nothing to Sheldon?"
"No."
"And you'll see this--this niece of the housekeeper's?"
"Yes."
The man gave a gasp of relief and sank into his chair.
"Now go, Nichols--and shift your clothes. Peggy's going about four. Come
back here and I'll give you a letter and a check."
Peter nodded and reached the door. As he opened it, Stryker straightened
and bowed uncomfortably. But Peter knew that he had been listening at
the keyhole.