I
Jeff Ranney lived on the road from East Harbor to Fraternity, some eight
miles from the bay. He was, at the period of which I write, a man
fifty-seven years old, and his life had been as completely uneventful as
life can be. He had never had an adventure, had never suffered a
catastrophe, had never achieved any great thing, had never even been
called upon to endure a particularly poignant grief. He was born in the
house where he still lived and save for one trip to Portland had never
crossed the county line. He married the daughter of a man whose farm lay
on the other side of Fraternity. She was not particularly pretty at any
time; and he had never any passion for her, though he had always liked
her well enough, and had always been kind. His father and mother lived
till he was in his forties, then died peaceably in their beds. He had
been a child of their later years, and before they died they had become
almost completely helpless, so that he felt it was time for them to go.
He and his wife had three children, all of whom grew to maturity. The
oldest, a girl, married an East Harbor boy who later moved to Augusta;
the other two, boys, went to Augusta to work in a factory there,
preferring the ordered hours of confined toil to the long and irregular
tasks upon the farm.
Now and then Jeff’s wife departed to visit her daughter, leaving him to
keep bachelor hall alone. He managed comfortably enough; his life, then
as always, followed a well-ordered and familiar routine. He rose at
daylight, cared for his stock, made his own breakfast, did whatever
tasks lay before him for the day, finished his chores before cooking
supper at night, washed the dishes, read the evening paper till he fell
asleep in his chair, and then went to bed. Now and then in the spring
and summer months he found time to catch a mess of trout; now and then
in the fall or winter he shot a partridge or a rabbit. When there was a
circus in East Harbor, or a fair, he went to town for the day. When
there was a dance in the Grange Hall he and his wife had used to go; but
they had long since ceased these frivolities.
Jeff’s farm was well kept; he had a profitable orchard, his cows were of
good stock. When the price of feed made the enterprise worth while he
raised a few pigs. There was no mortgage on the farm, his taxes were
paid, he owed no bills, his buildings were in good condition, he owned a
secondhand automobile and a piano, and he had some few hundred dollars
in the bank. It is fair to say that by the standards of the community in
which he lived he was a prosperous man. He was also a just man, and he
had a native sense and wit which his neighbors respected.
One November day, some years before this time of which I propose to
write, he woke early and looked from his kitchen window and saw a deer
feeding on the windfalls in his orchard. He shot the animal through the
open window; and the spike horns, still attached to a fragment of the
skull, were kept on the marble-topped table in the parlor of the
farmhouse. The shooting of this deer was the most exciting, the most
interesting thing that had ever happened to Jeff until that series of
incidents in which romance and drama were so absorbingly mingled, and
which is to be here set down.
It was a day in October. He had planned to go down into his woodlot and
manufacture stove wood, to be stored for use during the winter that was
still twelve months away. But when he awoke in the morning a cold rain
was lashing his window, and a glance at the sky assured him the rain
would continue all that day. He decided to postpone the outdoor task. A
few errands in town wanted doing, so he put before his animals
sufficient water for their needs till night, threw a thing or two into
the tonneau of his car, secured the curtains, cranked the engine and
started for East Harbor. Since the road was muddy and somewhat rutted,
and he had no chains, it was necessary for him to drive slowly; and his
late start made it almost noon when he slid down the steep and muddy
hill into the town. He parked his car at an angle in the middle of the
street and went to the restaurant presided over by Bob Bumpass for his
midday meal. Eating at a restaurant on his trips to town was one of the
things Jeff accounted luxuries.
Bob, fat and amiable as a Mine Host out of Dickens, asked Jeff what he
wanted; and Jeff ordered Regular Dinner Number Three: Vegetable soup,
fried haddock, pie and coffee; thirty-five cents. Not till he had given
his order did Jeff perceive that a certain excitement was in the air.
There were two other customers having lunch near where he sat. One was
Dolph Bullen, whose haberdashery was among the most prosperous of East
Harbor mercantile establishments; the other was the chief of police, Sam
Gallop, a wordy man. Bob Bumpass, having taken Jeff’s order and served
his soup, leaned against the counter to talk with these two men. Jeff
perceived that Sam was telling over again a story that had evidently
been told before.
“Yes, sir,” said Sam, “he came right along when I took a hold of him.
And he had the necklace in a kind of a leather case in his pocket the
whole time.”
“You took him right off the Boston boat, didn’t you?” Dolph asked.
“Yep,” said Sam. “Right out of his stateroom. He had his suitcase open
on the bunk when I knocked on the door. I didn’t wait for him to let me
in. Just opened her right up and went in; and he looked at me kind of
impudent; and he says, ‘Hullo,’ he says. ‘What’s the matter?’ Cool as
you want.”
“He come in here one day this summer, when the yacht was in here,” Bob
commented. “I kind of liked his looks.”
Sam shook his head ponderously. “Them’s the worst kind. But he didn’t
fool me.”
“Name’s Gardner, isn’t it?” Dolph asked.
Bob nodded. “Frank Gardner. He’s worked for old Viles for six-seven
years, he said.”
The chief of police was not willing that his part in the affair should
be forgotten. He was a round-faced, bald, easy-going man; but he knew
his rights, knew that in this drama which had been played he had a
leading rôle.
“I says to him, ‘Matter enough,’” he continued importantly. “‘I got a
warrant for you,’ I says. And he asked me what for; and I told him for
stealing Mrs. Viles’ jewels. He got red enough at that, and mad looking,
I’ll tell you. And he started to say something. But I shut him up. ‘You
can tell that to someone else,’ I says. ‘My job’s to take you up to
jail.’ Then he asked who swore out the warrant; and I told him old Viles
did; and at that he shut up like a clam, and snapped his suitcase shut,
and came along. I found the things when I went through his clothes, up’t
the jail.”
He had more to tell, and when Bob Bumpass had brought Jeff his fried
haddock and resumed his place as auditor Sam took up the telling. How
Leander Viles had come to him, demanding the arrest of his secretary;
how he had insisted that the millionaire swear out a warrant; how
incensed Viles had become at this insistence.
“I’ll tell you,” said Sam emphatically, “he got right purple, till I
thought the man’d burst; and he sort of fell down in a chair, grabbing
at his chest; and then he got white as can be.”
Dolph nodded. “Men like him, big and fat, and full of whisky all the
time--they go that way. He’s got a temper too. Some day when he’s good
and mad that heart of his will crack on him.”
Their talk continued, and Jeff continued to listen. In any issue it is
instinctive for mankind to take sides. Dolph and Bob Bumpass were
inclined to think a mistake had been made. “I don’t believe he aimed to
steal that necklace at all,” said Bob; and Jeff found himself agreeing
with the restaurant man. The three were still discussing the matter when
Jeff finished his pie, paid his score and went his way.
His errands kept him busy all that afternoon. An ax handle, two or three
pounds of nails, four feet of strap iron and a box of shells from the
hardware store; a pair of overalls from Dolph Bullen; oatmeal, coffee,
sugar and salt from the grocer; a bag of feed from the hay and grain
market at the foot of the street. These errands were attended with much
casual conversation, chiefly concerned with the arrest of the jewel
thief. Late in the afternoon Jeff sought out Ed Whalen, who dealt in
coal and wood, and made a deal by which Ed would buy from him a dozen
cords of stove wood, to be delivered while snow was on the ground. Ed’s
office was near the water front; and when Jeff came out he perceived the
Viles yacht at her anchorage a little above the steamboat wharf. Jeff
studied the craft for a while admiringly, and he wondered how much she
had cost. “As much as my whole farm,” he guessed. “Or mebbe more.”
Night was coming swiftly; the lights aboard the yacht were turned on
while he stood there, and her portholes appeared like round and luminous
eyes. He could dimly see a sailor or two, in oilskins, under the deck
lamps. Rain was still falling, cold and implacable. “Guess the folks
that live on her are keeping dry, inside,” he hazarded. He tried to
picture to himself their manner of life, so different from his own, as
he went back up the hill toward where he had left his car.
A farmer from Winterport, whom he had not seen for years, halted him on
the corner above Dolph’s store, and they talked together for a space in
the shelter of the entrance to the bank. A whistle down the harbor
announced the coming of the Boston boat; and before they separated
another whistle told of her departure. Then Jeff had trouble cranking
his car. He had forgotten to cover the hood, and the ignition wires and
plugs were wet. One cylinder caught at last; and then another; and
finally all four. He had already loaded in his purchases on the floor
and seat of the tonneau. The bag of feed lay along the seat.
The Winterport man had reported that the steamship line would make a new
rate for apples by the barrel to Boston that fall; and Jeff decided to
go down to the wharf and make inquiries. He parked his car on the edge
of the wharf, in the lee of the freight sheds, and this time threw an
old rubber blanket over the hood to keep the plugs dry, before turning
toward the office. With the departure of the boat, business hereabouts
was done for the day; and save for a light in the office, and another
on the pier toward shore, the wharf was dark. Jeff’s errand occupied
some ten minutes’ time; and while he was inside a fiercer squall of rain
burst over the harbor. He could hear the water drumming on the roof.
When the squall had passed he returned to his car and took the blanket
off the hood and threw it into the dark cavern of the tonneau, then
cranked the engine and turned around and started home. His lights, run
from the magneto, were dim and uncertain; his attention was all upon the
road. The car skidded and slid and slued and bumped; but it came to no
disaster. He drove into his own barn toward seven o’clock in the
evening, and left his purchases untouched while he went into the house
to change into overalls, so that he might do his chores.
When he came back into the barn he saw someone standing motionless
beside the machine. He lifted the lantern which he carried, so that its
light flooded the still figure, and perceived that the person who stood
there, facing him, was a woman.