The trouble at Pinelands A detective story
crook of one long arm a dilapidated double-barreled shotgun.
“Not much to look at, as Rufe admitted,” he remarked, displaying the
weapon. “But I guess she’ll shoot, and Peter’s got lots of shells.”
It was a dubious-looking affair, whose stock had been split and wound
with tape and wire, both about the grip and above the lock, where its
barrels were hinged. Somers broke it and peered down the barrels.
“A bit rusty,” he announced and snapped the barrels into place. They
dropped promptly back. “And the catch doesn’t work properly. I’ll have
to watch out, or the old thing’ll break when I fire it, and I’ll get
beaned. But it will do, I expect.”
We went on into the house. Aunt Mary was nowhere in sight, but the two
girls fastened upon us at once, demanding full details of our trip. “We
didn’t dare say much about it before Aunt Mary,” explained Dorothy. “She
acts so queer when we talk about the murder, and Peter is so
aggravating. He just keeps saying: ‘Wait; let Somers tell it. He was the
hero!’ So go ahead, doctor, and tell us!”
Somers told our tale, prompted now and again while the two young women
listened, spellbound.
“Satterfield showed us up,” said he, “and the bunch was just about to
eat us alive when the revenue agents stepped in and arrested all hands.
We slid down the mountain in the dark, and----”
“Hold on!” interrupted Peter, grinning. “Let me. No, doc, you’ve got to
be a hero, that’s all. The government men came in and this Roaring Lafe,
this great beefy giant, climbed Somers here and got him by the throat.
‘I’m going to kill _you_, anyhow!’ he said. And nobody dared shoot, they
thrashed about so, and poor feeble old doc here was being choked to
death.”
He stopped, prolonging the suspense. “Ah-h-h!” sighed Anne. “Go on!”
“And what do you think the old skeleton did? Why, just poked Roaring
Lafe in the armpit and paralyzed that arm; and then he up with that
pistol you gave him and tapped him on the back of his head, just as
gently, and Roaring Lafe drifted off into dreamland, right away, quick.
Behold the hee-ro!”
Somers looked annoyed. “It wasn’t anything,” he said. “It’s all in
knowing where to hit ’em.”
Anne Christie’s big violet eyes hung upon him almost reverently. This
lanky doctor not only did not fear Roaring Lafe, but he had vanquished
him in single combat by force of arms! He might have been a demigod, so
worshiping was her gaze.
“Look!” whispered Dorothy. “And he doesn’t even see it. Men are so
blind! Don’t he know she’s in love with him?”
If he did he made no sign. He went calmly on while the dull flush faded
from his cheeks, telling of the trip down the mountain, of our interview
with Rutledge at the jail.
“But--but,” said Dorothy, “you s-said it was all right! You said you’d
found out who killed Doctor Gaskell, so Lewis could come home--and you
didn’t! You haven’t done a thing! Why, we’re worse off than we were
before. Oh, dear; oh, dear!”
“I have found out,” declared Somers. “Just wait!”
“Wait?” she asked. “Wait? That’s all you say--wait, wait, wait! Oh,
it’s very easy for you to wait; you’re not in p-prison, and he’s not
your h-husband, either! I’m going to send for a lawyer--a
detective--somebody! Lewis shan’t be c-convicted before my eyes like
this. Wait, you keep saying! How much l-longer must I wait?”
“Until to-morrow.”
I started, looked at the lanky, imperturbable physician more closely.
For all his external calm I saw now that his strange, gray-green eyes
shone with excitement; that some inner fever twitched at his lean hands
and made them unsteady. What had he discovered that was hidden from me?
“Oh-h! Honest?” asked Dorothy incredulously.
He nodded. “Honest! Just wait until morning; you’ll see, unless I’m
making a terrible mistake.”
“But--but who?” we all demanded, excitedly. “Who did it, then?”
Somers grinned. “Closer!” he ordered and whispered dramatically into our
eager ears.
“I think it was--the Poltergeist!”
And he would say no more. I was disgusted at this ill-timed joking; with
my nephew in the county jail once more, awaiting trial for his life,
this silly jest seemed in bad taste, to say the least of it. But there
matters rested for the remainder of a most unpleasant day.
Aunt Mary appeared at supper, looking very haggard, but quite calm. She
smiled wanly and talked in a weak voice about spiritism. She quite
ignored this morning’s outburst; and so did the rest of us.
But I was still more disgusted with Somers when he abandoned his pose of
silly credulity and came out flatly to proclaim an utter disbelief in
all spiritistic manifestations. What ailed the fellow? A few hours ago
he had not only lapped up Aunt Mary’s farrago, but had declared with
every appearance of sincerity that Gaskell had been murdered by a ghost;
now he announced, with a supercilious sneer, that we had merely imagined
the Poltergeist; that it was absurd to suppose that any spirit could
have dragged Rosina’s bedclothes off her, or destroyed Dorothy’s wedding
dress.
We were all angry, I think, even Peter.
“I suppose I imagined myself on the floor when the thing dragged my
chair from under me,” he said.
Somers smiled maddeningly. “You went to sleep and fell off.”
“And how about my blankets?” I asked. “You saw yourself they were gone
from my bed.”
“You walked in your sleep, no doubt, and carried ’em away.”
“Do you think I’d sp-spoil my own wedding dress, even if I was asleep?”
asked Dorothy indignantly. “And I suppose Rosina stuck pins into
herself, too?”
“No doubt.” Somers rose, still grinning. “Ghosts!” said he. “Rot! There
are no ghosts. You folks dreamed or imagined most of this stuff, and
there’s probably a very simple explanation for the rest. Just
superstition, that’s all. You’ve exaggerated and dwelt upon these things
until you’re all convinced a ghost did ’em, and you use all sorts of
trifles to bolster up your belief.”
There was just enough truth in the charge to irritate us all. Only Aunt
Mary failed to protest, but the strangely vindictive look which she bent
upon Somers made me catch my breath.
“I shan’t argue about it,” she said coldly. “I only hope, Doctor Somers,
that you may never suffer for your disbelief. Sometimes the spirits
resent disbelief, doctor, and punish it!”
I shivered, there was such prophetic menace in her tones, but Somers
only smiled again.
“I’m going to bed early,” he declared. “I left that shotgun in the
cupboard on the back porch. Don’t touch it, you girls; it’s loaded. I’m
about used up; I’m going to sleep late if I can. But after breakfast
Peter and I will go a-hunting for bobwhites!”
“Don’t!” begged Dorothy again. “If you do, I’m just sure somebody will
be killed. It’s bad luck to hunt those quail; I know it!”
CHAPTER XXXII
THE POLTERGEIST’S LAST VISIT
I went to bed early, as we all did. That was a very tired household.
Somers disappeared directly after supper, and Aunt Mary followed half an
hour later.
Dorothy and Anne Christie, after the old lady had been safely tucked in,
returned to the living room and sat with Peter and me for a while,
trying dismally to make talk. But, after two disturbed nights, they were
both dead for sleep. Dorothy nodded over her embroidery, and Miss
Christie wore again that expression of bovine somnolence, which Somers’
medicine, or the events of this last month, had driven away. And Peter
and I were little better.
At last Miss Christie rose. “It’s no use,” she declared. “I’m going to
bed. I--I feel as sleepy and as stupid as I ever did before I began
taking Doctor Somers’ tablets. If the Poltergeist should come back
to-night, I’d never know it--not unless he dragged me out of bed. And
then I’d just curl up on the floor, I think. I’m so sleepy!”
It was not later than nine o’clock, but we were all exhausted, and we
all went to bed. I abandoned my half-formed design of sitting up to
watch for the Poltergeist. Let him come! I was too tired to care.
Peter, yawning up the stairs beside me, expressed the same idea. “I
thought I’d sit up,” he said, “and watch for that darn ghost, just to
prove Somers was wrong, but I’m too sleepy.”
Somers’ door was closed, and no sound came from behind it. Evidently he,
too, had succumbed to the need of rest.
I bade Dorothy and Peter a sleepy good night, and in five minutes I was
undressed and in bed, fathoms deep in dreamless slumber.
A sudden wild shriek awakened me, such a scream as would drag the
soundest sleeper from his bed and bring the cold sweat out upon his
forehead, a scream of mortal fear. It was Dorothy’s voice!
Despite my rheumatism, I was out of bed and at her door in two leaps. My
heart was in my throat.
“Dorothy!” I said. “Dorothy! What is it, child?”
She clutched me, trembling. “Oh,” she said, shaking pitifully. “Oh,
dear! I--I can’t----”
“What is it?” Peter was beside me, shaking his sister’s arm. “What’s
happened? Are you all right?”
“I--there’s a s-snake in my bed!”
Came a soft pad of unshod feet, the swish of loose garments, and Somers
was beside us. Even in my excitement I noticed and wondered at it--that
he came, not from his own room, but up the stairs.
“What?” he asked, with one flashing look at us. “Unk, Pete”--he clutched
our shoulders cruelly--“tell me, is there a back stairway to this
joint?”
We nodded dumbly, amazed at his query.
“Oh, scissors!” He wheeled and disappeared as abruptly as he had come. I
heard his bare feet pounding down the stairs.
Peter switched on the lights, and all three of us started back, laughing
confusedly.
“Oh, dear me!” said Dorothy, drawing her bathrobe about her.
Peter looked at my pajamas and laughed consumedly. “Those wide red
stripes are frightfully becoming, unk!”
I snorted. They were good linen pajamas, and I had bought them very
cheap because of those very stripes. I am past the days of personal
vanity.
“You’re no beauty yourself in those purple things,” I replied
resentfully.
Then we separated, but returned presently, wrapped in dressing gowns, to
investigate Dorothy’s bed.
Somers came back up the stairs. He, too, was in a bathrobe and slippers,
and he held one hand tightly shut.
“Missed it,” he said. “I didn’t know about those back stairs. What
happened here?”
“A s-snake in my bed!” said the girl, shivering.
“Humph!” He threw back its covers. “Snake? Ha! No wonder.”
He clutched at the sheet. It was damp, and in its center, right where
poor Dorothy’s back must have been, was a long sliver of ice.
“Here’s your snake,” Somers declared.
“I don’t care!” replied Dorothy. “It was just like a snake, long and
cold and clammy. Br-r-r!”
He picked up the piece of ice and carried it to the bathroom. “Well,
your snake’s gone. Miss anything from the room?”
“Nun-no,” she repeated wonderingly. Then she went to the dresser and
looked about a moment. “I do, too! My wedding ring and my diamond! Oh,
dear, my rings are gone!”
“Here,” said Somers, opening his hand. His strange eyes danced brightly.
Triumph showed in every line of his face. In his palm lay both rings.
“Oh, you dear man! Where were they? And now you believe in the
Poltergeist, don’t you?”
“I found them in--in the hall. And as for the ghost--why, we will get
Aunt Mary to explain that later. Can you go back to sleep now?”
The girl nodded doubtfully. “I--I think so, if all of you will leave
your doors wide open?”
“I’m going to sit up,” said Somers, and Dorothy, somewhat reassured,
turned to her bed as we went out.
The physician entered his own room. We heard him whistle shrilly. “Come
here, you chaps!” he called softly.
Peter and I went in. And there, driven deep through coverlet and sheets,
right into the mattress, was a carving knife!