The trouble at Pinelands A detective story

“Humph!” said Somers. “Looks like the Poltergeist wasn’t entirely harmless, don’t it? In the dark he must have thought I was in bed.” Not without difficulty he pulled out the seven-inch blade. It would have pierced his body, had he been sleeping there! “Where were you?” I whispered. “Me? On the stairs, watching for the Poltergeist. Those back stairs fooled me.” And he would say no more, except, “I found those rings just outside Aunt Mary’s door.” “Maybe the ghost visited her, too!” I cried, alarmed. “Run down and see, Peter. We forgot the poor old lady.” “Humph!” said Somers. “She’s good friends with the ghost, but go anyhow, Peter.” Peter went. “Sound asleep, she says,” he reported. “Didn’t hear anything. I went right in; Miss Christie was dead to the world; didn’t hear me knock.” “Go to bed,” directed Somers. “No, nothing more to-night. Things are going very nicely. In the morning this ought to be cleared up.” So we went back to bed, despairing of further information, but I could not sleep. I lay there wide-eyed through the long, black hours, wondering--wondering. Who--what was this specter, this Poltergeist? If Somers had been in his bed to-night, it would have killed him; had it killed Gaskell, also? And what did Aunt Mary know of the grisly thing? Aunt Mary would explain, Somers had said. The old lady’s bed faced the window, I remembered, and that window looked out upon the tangle of scrub oaks, where Gaskell had met his death. It must have been light, even at four o’clock. Had Aunt Mary been awake that morning? And if so, what had she seen? And why had she kept it secret? There were huge cellars under the old house, I knew, cellars long unexplored. Had Gaskell’s murderer come to the window? What whispered colloquy had been held, there in the gray dawn, between the paralytic and this stranger, this grisly ghost of the murderous hands? Had the old lady recognized him, shielded him, told him where to hide, perhaps, in those long closed cellars, where she might have played as a child? Fort House was an old home of the McGregors; in the days of Dorothy’s grandfather, Aunt Mary might well have visited it, explored its vast underground caverns, where wines had once been stored. And what--who--was this murderer, then, whom she had shielded, who had wandered about Fort House of nights, screaming horridly, eating from the pantry, breaking dishes, playing ghostly tricks, stabbing, as he had meant to, an innocent guest? I went cold at the picture in my imagination. Some lunatic, some secret, stealthy madman, who might yet slaughter us all! I sat up in bed, straining my ears, glad of the pistol I had rummaged out at home, and which still lay in my bag. I got it out, resolved to keep vigil. If this Poltergeist, this madman, came back, I would protect Dorothy at least. And in the morning we would hunt, not harmless quail in the back yard, but a wanton murderer through the cellars. The hours wore on, and dawn came slowly. As the east turned gray, the quail piped up their matutinal song. “Bob_white_! Bob_white_!” they whistled; louder, closer, than ever before. So shrill was their continual outcry, and so close beneath me, that at last I tiptoed to the window. Perhaps I might see them, locate their nests, against our later hunting. I swung back the screen and put out my head, peering almost straight down. “Bob_white_! Bob_white_! Bob_white_!” they piped at three-second intervals, regular as a clock and surprisingly loud and close. And then I gasped and almost fell out of the window. These were no birds! The cry of quail was counterfeited so exactly that I could scarcely believe my eyes; instead of a little brown bird, Floyd Somers crouched beneath Aunt Mary’s window, diagonally below my own, his long, lean legs grotesquely folded under him, his thin lips pursed. From his lips, at regular, three-second intervals, came the shrill cry of the bobwhite quail, exactly imitated! This childish buffoonery angered me sorely. What ailed the man? Had he no appreciation of what hung over us? In the midst of the dark shadow which covered Fort House, before the very eyes, perhaps, of a lurking, murderous madman, he could find nothing better to do than play this puerile practical joke upon a helpless old woman. “What are you doing, man? Stop it!” I shouted wrathfully. He looked up, in no way abashed, and gestured vigorously for silence. Despite my rage, his desperate earnestness, his frantic signs for secrecy, closed my lips. Wondering mightily, I huddled into a few things and hurried downstairs and around the house. Somers still crouched beneath the east window, whistling with all his might: “Bob_white_! Bob_white_!” I blundered through the honeysuckle vines toward him. “Shut up, man!” he said to me and clutched my shoulder to draw me down beside him. “Want to spoil everything?” he demanded, his lips close to my ear. “She’ll hear you. Shut up, I say, and watch!” I subsided, born down, if not convinced, by his angry sincerity. Whatever his purpose, this was no silly joke; I could see that much. There was some deep-laid, important plan beneath this foolery. “Bob_white_!” he whistled. “Bob_white_!” A faint movement came from within the open window, and a weak, querulously patient voice said: “Miss Christie! Nurse!” Somers held his breath; then, remembering, whistled the quail’s call louder than before. “If she’ll only stay asleep, or pretend to be asleep, as I told her!” he exclaimed. “Bob_white_!” Asleep or not, the nurse made no answer. Aunt Mary called again tentatively, then querulously. Still the nurse made no reply. “Ah-h!” sighed Somers. Gripping my arm fiercely, he whistled louder yet: “Bob_white_! Bob_white_!” I could not believe my ears. Within, the nurse’s quiet breathing ran on unchanged, almost a snore. Surely she was asleep! Yet I heard footsteps, the unmistakable padding of bare feet across the floor! What--who--could it be? The murderer? “I’ll kill those miserable birds _myself_!” That was Mary McGregor’s voice! And she seemed to be alone. What could she be doing? The patter of bare feet, scarcely audible, faded away. I heard a door open and close stealthily. Somers erected himself, his long legs straightening telescopically. He peered in the window. “Look!” he exclaimed. On my very tiptoes, straining higher, craning my neck, I looked. Aunt Mary’s bed was empty! She was nowhere in sight! And I saw the edge of Anne Christie’s bed in the inner room, and a long braid of blond hair hung over it toward the floor. “Down!” ordered Somers. “Quick!” He dragged me back just in time. I caught one furtive glimpse of Mary McGregor, indubitably erect, walking, upon her two paralyzed legs, like any other person. And her face, not sweet or patient now, was distorted with maniacal rage. She carried a shotgun! I ducked below the window ledge, stunned with amazement. Right over my head I heard the grating of a gun barrel against the window screen, a muttered exclamation, the tremendous _wham_ of black powder! A burning gun wad scorched my hand; bird shot pattered in the leaves behind us; Somers dragged me away. “Quick!” he said. “You saw, you heard? Run, before she has time to hide it!” I raced round the house beside him. “What--what does it mean?” I asked. “Why, she’s paralyzed! Is she crazy, or am I?” “Mean? It means that the Poltergeist has made its last appearance,” answered Somers. “Now!” We were in the house, through the long, crooked hall, at Aunt Mary’s closed door. Without waiting to knock, he burst in. CHAPTER XXXIII THE FINAL EXPLANATION Aunt Mary McGregor lay quietly in her bed, propped with pillows. Her drawn face wore a look of sweet resignation; she was gazing absently out of the open window. The place was so still, so peaceful; the old lady’s expression was so calm; the illusion of a quiet sick room was so complete that I almost doubted what my eyes and ears had just told me. Only the ragged hole in the window screen, through which that charge of bird shot had just poured, and the drifting, pungent cloud of black powder smoke, which still filled the air, convinced me that I had not dreamed. The shotgun was nowhere in sight. As we burst in, Anne Christie was just emerging from her inner room, struggling into a bathrobe, so quickly had we come. Aunt Mary turned at our entry, her thin eyebrows raised, as for a patient rebuke at this disturbance. Then she saw Somers. She stared at him dumbly for an instant, with bulging eyes and horrified, unbelieving face. _“You!_” she exclaimed. “You!” Somers nodded brusquely. “Quite so! You see, I wasn’t in bed when you came in last night.” The old lady wet her colorless lips. “I--I d-don’t understand,” she whispered. “What--what does this--this impudent intrusion mean?” It was a weak attempt at bluster. The physician ignored it. “It’s no use, Aunt Mary,” he replied almost kindly. His eyes pitied her. “You can’t get away with it this time. I saw you myself, and Uhlman, here, saw you, too. We saw you get out of bed and go after that gun; we saw you shoot out of the window at the quail.” “Gun?” asked Aunt Mary, stubbornly uncomprehending. “What gun? I was asleep. There’s no gun here.” By this time Peter was pounding in, Dorothy at his heels. “What now?” he demanded. “Oh, what is it?” asked the girl. “Has anybody been killed this time?” With one backward-flung hand, Somers gestured for silence. His gray-green eyes were steady upon the old lady. “No use,” he repeated inexorably. “The gun’s right in this room somewhere; you didn’t have time to take it out again. It’s hidden here; in your bed, perhaps. Shall I find it, or will you?” Aunt Mary’s black eyes fell before his steady gaze. “Spare me that, at least!” she said petulantly. “You may burst in on me as you did; I can’t prevent that, helpless as I am, and my own flesh and blood”--with a vicious look at poor Peter--“won’t even try to save me from such insolence! But you needn’t go further; you needn’t search my bed!” Leaning forward she reached a slim, veined hand beneath the covers to bring out Rufus Wakefield’s battered shotgun, still smoking faintly. A fresh reek of burned powder filled the room. We all gasped, staring at her with shocked incomprehension. Even now the thing seemed incredible! “Aunt--Ma-ry!” whispered Dorothy. “How--what have you done?” The old lady began to weep helplessly. “Nun-nothing!” she wailed. “Dorothy--Peter--will you stand there and see your poor, paralyzed aunt insulted like this? Send this insolent person out; make him let me alone!” Somers shook his head. His dark face was very pitiful; I think he felt for this poor old wretch even more than did the rest of us. “Come,” he urged. “Don’t make this any harder. Let’s get it over with! You were the Poltergeist, weren’t you?” Aunt Mary only sobbed. “Weren’t you?” Dropping her hands, she disclosed a haggard, tear-streaked face, as she turned upon us, not without dignity. “If you must have it--yes!” she said. “Yes! I was the Poltergeist. It was easy, so easy! You were so stupid, all of you; you never even guessed. And this stupid, sleepy, worthless nurse”--with a bitter glance at poor Anne--“lay there and snored and never knew! I slipped in and out--I broke dishes--I ate my fill from the pantry. None of you cared if I was hungry; not one of you would offer me a bite to eat! I helped myself.” “Why, Aunt Mary!” said Dorothy. “You know we just begged you and coaxed you, and you always said your appetite was so delicate! All the pies and cakes and jam and candy--did you eat them, too?”