CHAPTER XXIII.
A SHOT IN THE DARK.
That afternoon dragged itself slowly away.
I left Carnes in our room, and went below to note the movements of thetwo crooks.
They were both upon the piazza; Blake smoking a well-colored meerschaumand seemingly half asleep, and the Dimber, with his well-polished bootheels elevated to the piazza railing, reading from a brown volume, witha countenance expressive of absorbed interest.
I seated myself where I could observe both without seeming to do so, andtilting my hat over my nose, dropped into a lounging attitude. I supposethat I looked the personification of careless indolence. I know that Ifelt perplexed, annoyed, uncomfortable.
Perplexed, because of the many mysteries that surrounded me. Annoyed,because while I longed to be actively at work upon the solution of thesemysteries, I could only sit like a sleepy idiot, and furtively watch tworascals engaged in killing time, the one with a pipe, the other with aFrench novel. Uncomfortable, because the day was sultry, and the piazzachairs were hard, and constructed with little regard for the ease of theforms that would occupy them.
But there comes an end to all things, or so it is said. At last therecame an end to my loitering on the warm piazza.
At the proper time Carnes came lumbering down-stairs seeming not yetsobered, but fully equipped for his journey. He took an affectionateleave of the landlord, receiving some excellent advice in return. And,after favoring me with a farewell speech, half maudlin, halfimpertinent, wholly absurd, and intended for the benefit of thelookers-on, who certainly enjoyed the scene, he departed noisily, and,as Barney Cooley, was seen no more in Trafton.
A few moments later, "the gentleman in gray" also took his leave,bestowing a polite nod upon one or two of the more social ones, butwithout so much as glancing toward Dimber Joe or myself. He walkedsedately away, followed by the hotel factotum, who carried his nattytraveling bag.
Still Dimber read on at his seemingly endless novel, and still I loungedabout the porch, sometimes smoking, sometimes feigning sleep.
At last came supper time. I hailed it as a pleasant respite, andfollowed Dimber Joe to the dining room with considerable alacrity.
Dr. Bethel came in soon, looking grave and weary. We saluted eachother, but Bethel seemed little inclined to talk, and I was glad not tobe engaged in a conversation which might detain me at the table afterJoe had left it.
Bethel, I knew, was much at the house of the Barnards. The shock causedby the loss of her husband, together with the fatigue occasioned by hisillness, had prostrated Mrs. Barnard, who, it was said, was threatenedwith a fever, and Bethel was in constant attendance.
As yet there had been no opportunity for the renewal of theconversation, concerning the grave robbery, which had been interruptedmore than a week since by Mr. Brookhouse, and afterwards effectually cutoff by my flying visit to the city.
When the Dimber left the table I followed him almost immediately, onlyto again find him poring over that absorbing novel, and seeminglyoblivious to all else.
Sundown came, and then twilight. As darkness gathered, Dimber Joe laiddown his book with evident reluctance and carefully lighted a cigar.
Would he sit thus all the evening? I was chafing inwardly. Would the mando _nothing_ to break this monotony?
Presently a merry whistle broke upon the stillness, and quick steps camedown the street.
It was Charlie Harris and, as on a former occasion, he held a telegramin his hand.
"For you," he said, having peered hard at me through the gloom. "It camehalf an hour ago, but I could not get down until now."
I took the envelope from his hand and slowly arose.
"I don't suppose you will want my help to read it," he said, with an oddlaugh, as I turned toward the lighted office to peruse my message.
I gave him a quick glance, and then said:
"Come in, Harris, there may be an answer wanted."
He followed me to the office desk, and I was conscious that he waswatching my face as I perused its contents.
This is what I read by the office lamp.
4--. H, c, n, c, e, o, g, k, i, m, b--s, i, a--.
A cipher message. I turned, half smiling, to meet the eye of Harris andkept my own eyes upon his face while I said:
"I'm obliged to you, Harris, your writing is capital, and very easilyread. No answer is required."
The shrewd twinkle of his eye assured me that he comprehended my meaningas well as my words.
I offered him a cigar, and lighted another for myself. Then we went outupon the piazza together.
We had been in the office less than four minutes, but in that timeDimber Joe had disappeared, French novel and all. Much annoyed I peeredup and down the street.
To the left was the town proper, the stores, the depot, and otherbusiness places. To the right were dwellings and churches; a hill, thesummit and sides adorned with the best residences of the village; then ahollow, where nestled Dr. Bethel's small cottage; and farther on, andback from the highway, Jim Long's cabin. Beyond these another hill,crowned by the capacious dwelling of the Brookhouse family.
Which way had Dimber gone?
It was early in the evening, too early to set out on an expeditionrequiring stealth. Then I remembered that Joe had not left the hotelsince dinner; probably he had gone to the post office.
Harris was returning in that direction. I ran down the steps andstrolled townward in his company.
"It's deuced hot," said Harris, with characteristic emphasis, as helifted his hat to wipe a perspiring brow. "My office is the warmest holein town after the breeze goes down, and I've got to stay there untilmidnight."
"Extra business?" I inquired.
"Not exactly; we are going to have a night operator."
"Ah!" The darkness hid the smile on my face. "That will relieve you alittle?"
"Yes, a little; but I'm blessed if I understand it. Business isunusually light just now. I needed an assistant more in the Fall andWinter."
"Indeed," I said, aloud. Then to myself, "But Carnes and I did not needone so much."
Our agency had done some splendid work for the telegraph company whosewires ran through Trafton; and I knew, before requesting a new operatorin the town, that they stood ready to oblige my Chief to any extentcompatible with their own business. And my Chief had been expeditiousindeed.
"Then you look for your night operator by the down express?" Iquestioned, carelessly.
"Yes; they wired me that he would come to-night. I hope he'll be anobliging fellow, who won't mind taking a day turn now and then."
"I hope so," I replied, "for your sake, Harris."
We had reached the post-office, and bidding him good night, I entered.
A few tardy Traftonites were there, asking for and receiving their mail,but Dimber Joe was not among them.
I went slowly back to Porter's store, glancing in at various windows asI passed, but saw not the missing man.
How had he eluded me? Where should I look for him?
Returning to the hotel, I sat down in the seat lately occupied by thevanished crook, and pondered.
Was Dimber about to strike? Had he strolled out thus early toreconnoiter his territory? If so, he would return anon to equip himselffor the work; he could not well carry a burglar's kit in the light suithe wore.
Suddenly I arose and hurried up the stairs, resolved upon a boldmeasure.
Hastily unlocking my trunk, I removed a tray, and from a skillfullyconcealed compartment, took a pair of nippers, some skeleton keys, and asmall tin case, shaped like the candle it contained. Next, I removed myhat, coat, and boots; and, in another moment, was standing before thedoor of the room occupied by Dimber Joe. I knocked lightly and thesilence within convinced me that the room was unoccupied.
The Trafton House was not plentifully supplied with bolts, as I knew;and my nippers assured me that there was no key in the lock.
Thus emboldened, I fitted one of the skeleton keys, and was soon wi
thinthe room, making a hasty survey of Dimber Joe's effects.
"Thus assured, I fitted one of the skeleton keys."--page279.]
Aided again by my skeleton keys, I hurriedly opened and searched the twovalises. They were as honest as they looked.
The first contained a liberal supply of polished linen, a water-proofcoat and traveling-cap, together with other articles of clothing, andtwo or three novels. The second held the clerical black suit worn byDimber on the evening of his arrival in Trafton; a brace of linendusters, a few articles of the toilet, and a small six-shooter.
There was nothing else; no concealed jimmy, no "tools" of anydescription.
It might have been the outfit of a country parson, but for the novelsand the revolver. This latter was loaded, and, without any actual motivefor so doing, I extracted the cartridges and put them in my pocket.
In another moment I was back in my own room, baffled, disappointed, andpuzzled more than before.
Sitting there alone, I drew from my pocket the lately received telegram,and surveyed it once more.
4--. H, c, n, c, e, o, g, k, i, m, b--s, i, a--.
Well might Harris have been puzzled. Arrant nonsense it must have seemedto him, but to me it was simplicity itself. The dispatch was fromCarnes, and it said:
"He is coming back."
Simplicity itself, as the reader will see, by comparing the letters andthe words.
"He is coming back." This being interpreted, meant, "Blake Simpson isnow returning to Trafton."
Was I growing imbecile?
Blake Simpson had departed in the daylight, doubtless taking the "toolsof his trade" with him, hence the innocent appearance of his partner'sroom, for partners, I felt assured, they were.
He was returning under cover of the darkness; Dimber had gone out tomeet him, and before morning, Trafton would be supplied with a freshsensation.
How was I to act? How discover their point of attack?
It yet lacked more than two hours of midnight. Trafton had not yet goneto sleep.
Blake was coming back, but how?
My telegram came from a village fifteen miles distant. Blake thenmust have left the train at that point, and Carnes had followed him. Hehad followed him until assured that he was actually returning toTrafton, and then he had sent the message.
Blake might return in two ways. He might hire a conveyance and driveback to Trafton, or he might walk back as far as the next station, adistance of five miles, and there wait for the night express.
It seemed hardly probable that he would care to court notice bypresenting himself at an inn or livery stable. He would be more apt towalk away from the village, assume some light disguise, and return bythe train. It would be a child's trick for him to drop from the movingtrain as it entered the town, and disappear unnoticed in the darkness.
Carnes might return by that train, also, but we had agreed that, unlesshe was fully convinced that Blake meant serious mischief, and that Iwould need his assistance, he was to continue on his journey, as itseemed important that he should be in New Orleans as soon as possible.
After some consideration, I decided that I would attach myself toDimber, should he return, as it seemed likely that he would, it being soearly. And if he failed to appear, I would lie in wait for the nightexpress, and endeavor to spot Blake, should he come that way.
Having thus decided, I resumed my hat, coat and boots, extinguished mylight, locked my door and went down-stairs.
The office lamp was burning its brightest, and there underneath it,tilted back in the only arm-chair the room could boast, sat Dimber Joe;his hat hung on a rack beside the door, a fresh cigar was stuck betweenhis lips, and he was reading again that brown-covered French novel!
I began to feel like a man in a nightmare. Could that indolent-lookingnovel reader be meditating a crime, and only waiting for time to bringthe hour?
I went out upon the piazza and fanned myself with my hat. I feltdiscomposed, and almost nervous. At that moment I wished devoutly that Icould see Carnes.
By-and-by my absurd self-distrust passed away, and I began to feel oncemore equal to the occasion.
Dimber's room was not, like mine, at the end of the building. It was a"front room," and its two windows opened directly over the porch uponwhich I stood.
I had the side door of the office in full view. He could not leave thehouse unseen by me.
Mr. Holtz came out to talk with me. I complained of a headache anddeclared my intention to remain outside until it should have passedaway. We conversed for half an hour, and then, as the hands of theoffice clock pointed to half-past ten he left me to make his nightlyround through kitchen, pantries, and dining-room, locking and barringthe side door of the office before going. And still Dimber Joe read on,to all appearances oblivious of time and all things else.
A wooden bench, hard and narrow, ran along the wall just under theoffice window, affording a seat for loungers when the office should beoverfull, and the chairs all occupied. Upon this I stretched myself, andfeigned sleep, for a time that seemed interminable.
Eleven o'clock; eleven loud metalic strokes from the office time keeper.
Dimber Joe lowered the leg that had been elevated, elevated the leg thathad been lowered, turned a page of his novel and read on. The man'scoolness was tantalizing. I longed to forget my identity as a detective,and his as a criminal, and to spring through the window, strike the bookfrom his hand, and challenge him to mortal combat, with dirks at closequarters, or pistols at ten paces.
Half-past eleven. Dimber Joe stretched his limbs, closed his book,yawned and arose. Whistling softly, as if not to disturb my repose, hetook a small lamp from a shelf behind the office desk, lighted itleisurely and went up-stairs.
As he entered the room above, a ray of light, from his window gleamedout across the road. It rested there for, perhaps, five minutes and thendisappeared.
Had Dimber Joe closed his novel to retire like an honest man?
Ten more long minutes of quiet and silence, and then the stillness wasbroken by a long, shrill shriek, sounding half a mile distant. It wasthe night express nearing Trafton station.
As this sound died upon the air, another greeted my ears; the sound ofswift feet running heedlessly, hurriedly; coming directly toward me fromthe southward.
As I rose from my lounging place and stepped to the end of the piazzathe runner came abreast of me, and the light streaming through theoffice window revealed to me Jim Long, hatless, coatless, almostbreathless.
The lamp light fell upon me also, and even as he ran he recognized me.
Halting suddenly, he turned back with a quick ejaculation, which I didnot understand.
"Long, what has happened?"
The answer came between short, sharp breaths.
"Carl Bethel has been shot down at his own door! For God's sake go tohim! He is there alone. I must find a doctor."
"Carl Bethel has been shot down at his own door! ForGod's sake go to him! He is there alone. I must find a doctor."--page286.]
In another instant he was running townward at full speed, and I wasflying at an equal pace through the dark and silent street toward Dr.Bethel's cottage.