The Scourge of Memory
The next morning as Storm was on the point of starting for his office
Homachi ushered in a visitor. He was a sturdy, well-built man with
sandy hair and a lean, lantern-jawed face, and as he advanced and
stood fumbling with his cap only a slight limp and sag of one hip
betrayed the artificial limb which replaced the one he had left in
France.
“Well, MacWhirter,” Storm began cordially, and then his tone
sharpened. “There isn’t anything wrong at Greenlea?”
“No, sir.” The erstwhile gardener shifted uneasily. “Everything is
right as can be. Since you left me there as caretaker there’s been
nothing for me to do; not even a stray dog to be warned off the
place.”
“Then sit down, man, and tell me what brings you here.” There was a
trace of impatience now in Storm’s voice. Another reminder of Greenlea
and what had happened there!
“Well, sir, it’s just that; I’ve not enough to do.” MacWhirter eased
himself down gingerly upon the edge of a chair. “I’m not earning what
you pay me and I’m well fit——”
He flushed, glancing down at his curiously stiffened leg, and Storm
said hastily:
“Of course you are! You’re in every way as efficient as you were
before the war. I put you in charge because you are a responsible man
and I trusted you. All I want is to have the place guarded and looked
after during my absence.”
“I know, sir. I’ve kept the flowers up, though you told me not to
bother, because it’s a rare fine garden to go to waste and because the
mistress took such pride in it, begging your pardon, sir. I’ve never
forgot her kindness in keeping my place open for me and sending me
word at the hospital that no matter how bad I was hurt I was to come
back.” The man’s honest eyes misted and his voice grew unsteady, but
he controlled it respectfully after a moment’s pause. “If I felt that
the place or you, sir, actually needed me I’d stay on, but——”
“You want to leave, eh?” Storm interrupted shortly. “Well, you must
please yourself, MacWhirter. You are getting a head gardener’s wages
now.”
“Yes, Mr. Storm, and I’m not earning it, though I’m as able to as any
man alive. If I keep on being just a caretaker, folks’ll think I’m not
fit for anything else. I’m a farseeing man, and I’ve got to look out
for the future.” The shrewd, kindly Scotch eyes narrowed and then
swiftly darkened as he added in a lowered tone, “It isn’t only that,
sir; it’s main lonesome out there now.”
“In Greenlea, with all the neighbors about?”
“Not Greenlea; I mean the place itself. There’s something about it
since—since it has been closed up that fair gives me the creeps, sir!
Something uncanny, like! I—I’d rather not stay on, sir.”
There was a note of superstitious awe in the man’s tones which awoke
an unexpected answering chord in Storm, and his anger rose swiftly to
combat it.
“You’re a fool, MacWhirter!” He exclaimed roughly. “There’s nothing
wrong with the place. However, as you say, I don’t really need you
there; the night watchman at the country club can look after things
for me. I hope for your own sake that you have another position in
view——?”
“They’ll take me on as assistant ground keeper at the club, sir.”
MacWhirter’s tone was abashed. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful——”
Storm waved that aside.
“It will be mean less wages.” He watched the man closely.
“Yes, sir. But I——” MacWhirter’s eyes fell. “I’d rather take it, sir,
if you don’t mind.”
Storm shrugged.
“It is all the same to me, MacWhirter. Let me see; your month is
up——?”
“Tomorrow, sir.” There was unconcealed eagerness in the man’s tone.
“Of course, if you were thinking of getting another caretaker, I could
wait——”
“I shan’t.” Storm spoke with sudden decision. “I’m going away on a
long trip myself, and I have closed out my bank account, but I’ll pay
you off now in cash. Put the place in good order and mail me the keys
to-morrow.”
“I’ve brought them with me, sir.” MacWhirter rose, placed a bunch of
keys upon the table and gravely accepted the money. “Thank you, sir.
You’ll find the place in perfect order and the garden doing brave and
fine if you run out before you go away. I appreciate what you’ve done
for me, Mr. Storm, and I wouldn’t speak of leaving but for the
lonesomeness and my being of no real use.”
Storm cut the man’s protestations short and got rid of him with a
curtness but poorly masked. His manner more than his words had
conjured up a picture of the silent, deserted house standing amid the
bright flowers like a corpse decked for the funeral which made Storm’s
senses recoil as before a vision of something sinister and full of
dread.
For the life of him he could not put from his mind the swiftly
recurring memory of that sleeping garden on the night when he had cast
the handful of ashes out upon it and then drawn the curtains that the
coming moon might not peer through at what lay within. Had those ashes
of his first crime bred a fatal growth there among the flowers? Had a
phoenix risen from them to cry the deed in tones audible only to
MacWhirter’s susceptible Celtic ear?
In vain he cursed himself for a superstitious fool. Of course the
place was lonesome, but thank God! he was rid of the man and his silly
whims and fancies! No caretaker was needed there, anyway, and in the
fall he would cable George to sell it for him. Every closed, deserted
house in the country bore an aspect which the ignorant would term
‘uncanny’, but there could be nothing real, nothing tangible in the
sensations which had driven MacWhirter away; no lingering influence of
that night’s event could remain to manifest itself to those who might
come within its aura.
He would like to have asked MacWhirter to explain himself, had not
common sense forbade. He felt an inordinate curiosity as to the
latter’s sensations, and a sort of dread fascination settled itself
upon him, a desire to see for himself if that house at Greenlea
retained the power to thrill or unnerve him.
Then with a supreme effort he cast aside the spell which had held him
in thrall. What utter rot such superstitions were in these
materialistic days! MacWhirter was lonely, and he had made use of the
first excuse which came handy to get out of an uncongenial job. No
ghosts walked save those which lived in memory, and Storm would soon
be free from them forever! But he must go soon! Such a mood as this
could not have fastened upon him had he not been near the breaking
point; not now, when everything had gone so splendidly, when with
consummate skill and daring he had attained all his aims, overcome all
obstacles, turned the very weapons of fate into tools to serve his own
ends!
He told himself defiantly that everything was before him, but he was
deucedly tired, that was all. He would rest thoroughly in the woods,
recoup his nerves and then start upon the real adventure. Meanwhile,
for the sake of his continued sanity he must put all morbid thoughts
of MacWhirter’s nonsense and of Greenlea from his mind.
Yet when he presented himself before Nicholas Langhorne in the
latter’s sanctum at a little before noon his haggard face was
sufficient excuse for his errand.
“I wanted to know if it would be convenient for me to turn my work
over to someone else for the next week or two, Mr. Langhorne,” he
began. “I’m not feeling quite up to the mark; thought if I got away
for a time——”
“My dear Storm, I was going to suggest it to you myself.” Langhorne
waved him to a chair. “I’ve noticed that you were looking badly, and
it is natural enough under the circumstances. You really should have
taken a good rest at the time—er, a month ago. Arrange for as long a
vacation as you need to put yourself in shape again. Sherwood or Bell
or any of the minor officials can take over your work.”
Storm flushed in resentment at the unconscious imputation. So that was
how his services were regarded by this pompous old idiot! That was how
he was appreciated!
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, adding in swift irony: “If you can
possibly get along without me I should like to leave town almost
immediately.”
Langhorne nodded blandly.
“Just turn over your books to Sherwood to-morrow morning and don’t
give another thought to business until you return. Where have you
planned to go, my boy?”
The note of personal interest was as unusual as the paternal address,
but Storm still glowered.
“Up in the north woods, I think, for some bass fishing. I shall not be
gone longer than about ten days.” He rose. “I’m glad you can spare me
for I feel about all in.”
“Fishing!” Langhorne mused. “There is a lot of malaria in those woods,
Storm, and the discomforts of camp are abominable, to say nothing of
the indigestible cooking provided by the average guide. Now, if you
will take my advice, you will pick out some nice, quiet country club
with a good green and play your eighteen holes every day. There is
nothing like golf to set a man up; gentleman’s game, steadies the
nerve, clears the eye, fills the lungs with good fresh air and not too
strenuous. Golf——”
“I’ve played it,” Storm interrupted quietly, but the cold fury which
possessed him trembled in his tones. “I prefer fishing and I want to
rough it for a time. I won’t detain you any longer, Mr. Langhorne. My
books are in perfect order and can be turned over to-morrow.”
He withdrew, inwardly seething. Great God, must everyone he
encountered remind him? That driver, with the smudge of blood and the
long golden hair clinging to it, rose again before him as it had so
many times before, and in the privacy of his own office once more he
buried his face in his hands to ward off the vision. When, in heaven’s
name, would he be free from them all?
At least, his dismal treading of the eternal mill here had ceased
forever. When he turned over his books to Sherwood on the morrow and
locked his desk, he knew that he would never reopen it. When he
returned from the fishing trip it would be easy to plead further
ill-health until the moment came to send in his resignation. This
phase of existence was over.
He raised his head and looked about at the small but luxuriously
appointed office, grown familiar through more than fifteen years of
occupancy; revoltingly familiar, he told himself bitterly. He loathed
it all! How had the smug, complacent years slipped by without arousing
rebellion in his soul before this? He had been a mere cog in the
machine——No! Not even that!—a useless appendage, tolerated because of
his father! And all the time, how little these daily associates of his
had known of the real man, of his possibilities, his subsequent
achievements!
He had fooled them, deceived them all, gotten away with two stupendous
crimes under their very noses, by gad, and not one of them had an
inkling of the truth!
A tap upon the ground glass door interrupted his self-laudation, and
Millard entered.
“Hello, Storm. Came to see if you would run out and have a bite of
lunch with me,” he began. “Glad you’ve reconsidered your decision to
take that long trip. Holworthy told me the news. Deucedly hot to-day,
isn’t it?”
“Holworthy?” Storm repeated in unguarded annoyance. What perverse fate
had brought those two together?
“Yes,” Millard replied to the unvoiced query. “When he ’phoned to me
this morning I asked him out to Greenlea, but he said he couldn’t
come; had to work late at the office with Abbott putting him in touch
with his details for the next fortnight because you and he—Holworthy,
I mean—were going off fishing together. Delighted to hear it, old
chap; only I wish I could join you, but you know how I am tied up at
home. It will do you a lot more good than months of poking around by
yourself thousands of miles from home.”
He chattered on, but Storm scarcely heard. What had George telephoned
to him about? The Horton case had not even been mentioned between them
on the previous night, but Storm knew well the tenacity of George’s
grasp of an opinion or theory. Had he been sufficiently interested to
try to probe Millard for further news? But what news could there be?
This time he voiced the thought aloud.
“How about our wager, Millard? Still think you are going to win?”
“I wish I were as sure of eternal salvation!” the other retorted
stoutly. “Of course I’ll win, Storm; that man and the money will be
found!”
“So it is ‘that’ man now, eh?” Storm watched him narrowly. “Your
friends at Headquarters have given up the idea of a gang, then? They
think it was a one-man job?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” Millard wriggled uncomfortably in the chair
in which he had seated himself, uninvited. “I haven’t learned anything
further from that source, but Holworthy’s theory the other night
sounded mighty feasible to me. It is a lot more likely that Horton met
some close friend and went off quietly to make a night of it than that
he trusted himself with that bag in his possession to a crowd; and he
couldn’t very well have been kidnapped. Holworthy is getting to be as
much of a bug on the case as I am. Said his one regret in leaving town
was that he would not be able to keep in touch with it. He told me
when he called me up to ask about the papers——”
“What papers?” Storm interrupted.
“Why, those that were found wadded around the pistol in the bag,”
explained the other. “He wanted to know what the names of them were
and I told him they were all ‘Daily Bulletins’ of May twenty-eighth,
thirtieth——”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake Millard, don’t go over all that again!” Storm
cried in uncontrollable exasperation.
Millard snickered.
“That’s what Holworthy said, or words to that effect. He had the dates
all down pat.” Then his face grew grave. “You may laugh at it if you
like, but I think it is a very important clue and one that is apt to
be a big factor in the solution of the case.”
“If you are basing your hopes of winning the money on a wad of
unmarked sheets of newspapers, I’ll get it from Holworthy and spend it
for you now.” Storm laughed a trifle grimly. “You two are a couple of
nuts over this thing! I hope Holworthy will leave his theories behind
him when he hits the woods trail with me!”
Millard took the hint and rose.
“You’ll see!” he declared. “How about lunch?”
Storm shook his head.
“Sorry. Like to, old man, but I’m turning my books over to an
associate to-morrow and I’m up to my ears in work. By the way, I’ve
dismissed my gardener, MacWhirter, who has been looking after the
house out at Greenlea. It really doesn’t require a caretaker, you
know, and he has got a job as assistant ground keeper at the club.”
“He is a very good man,” Millard observed. “He kept your garden in
wonderful shape in the old days. How proud your poor wife was of her
flowers!—Well, I’ll run on. Hope I shall see you again before you
start on your trip, but if I don’t, I wish you the best of luck!”
“And you, with your wager,” Storm called after him. “Remember, the
money _and_ the man, Millard!”
When the door had closed he sprang from his chair. Leila and her
flowers! Would no one let him forget? On a sudden impulse he had told
Millard a modified version of MacWhirter’s defection in order to
silence any idle gossip which might spring up at the club and in so
doing he had brought that tactless reminder down about his own ears.
He could see her now in a soft cotton frock standing out under a
towering old lilac bush, its top just burgeoning in clusters of misty
lavender, the sun glinting down between the branches on her golden
hair. When she was warm it used to curl in little moist tendrils about
her forehead and the nape of her slender, white neck, and it felt like
spun silk between one’s fingers. . . .
Storm struck his forehead sharply with his clenched fist. What was the
matter with him to-day? Why couldn’t he control his treacherous,
wandering thoughts? This last unnerving vision had been Millard’s
fault, curse him! Well, he was through with Millard, just as he was
through with Langhorne and all the crew here and at the club! They
were out of his path from this moment on! Only George remained to be
tolerated a while longer for discretion’s sake——
Then the thought recurred to him of George’s telephoned query to
Millard. What on earth did he care about the papers that were found in
the bag? Horton had been a mere acquaintance of his of years gone by;
why should he take such a profound interest in the murder?
Could old George have begun to suspect the truth after all? During the
long evening in his rooms on the previous night nothing had been
discussed save the proposed fishing trip, and at its end they had not
definitely decided where to go; but George had seemed full of plans
and as carefree and eager as a boy for the anticipated outing. Could
this have been all a blind?
He remembered, too, how George had evaded comment on Colonel Walker’s
disclosure. Storm had concluded then that the whole thing had gone
miles over George’s head; but what if it had struck home? What if he
were mulling the affair over in secret in his slow, plodding mind,
correlating the facts he had learned, fitting them in with his theory?
But the most important link of all, the keystone upon which any
structure of circumstantial evidence against Storm could have been
built in the other’s thoughts, was the one thing which had assuredly
escaped his notice: the fact that the newspapers with which they had
packed the trunk had been incomplete, and the significance of the
dates. Amid the turmoil of Storm’s own brain that loomed as a clear
conviction beyond all doubt, and once more his fears subsided and
confidence was reborn.
George had expounded his theory as far as it went, and it pointed
merely to some unknown friend of Horton’s, some presumable associate
of his later years. Pah! Let George play upon that string until it
broke; let him spend the rest of the summer trying to ferret out
Horton’s immediate past and round up the latter’s acquaintances, if he
had become such a “bug” about the case as Millard had asserted! Let
them both work themselves into a fine frenzy over the missing sheets
of the “Bulletin,” memorize the dates, hang about Headquarters, make
asses of themselves generally!
Once and for all, he was done with weak misgivings and unwarranted
fears! They would never learn the truth; no one would ever know it. It
was locked in the breast of the one man in the world who had the
genius to conceive such a brilliant, sublimely simple coup, the
courage to carry it out and the patience and strategy to await the
assured outcome. What had he to do with these lesser minds and their
quibbling and straw-splitting?
A bit of current slang came whimsically to his mind, and Storm smiled
as he slammed down his desk and reached for his hat. He had put this
stunt over; now let them all come!