CHAPTER SEVEN
Seventy-five miles south of Chicago there is a whistle-stop calledShipmont. (No ship has ever been anywhere near it; neither has amountain.) It lives because of a small college; the college, in turn,owes its maintenance to an installation of great interest to the AtomicEnergy Commission.
Shipmont is served by two trains a day--which stop only when thereis a passenger to get on or off, which isn't often. These passengers,generally speaking, are oddballs carrying attache cases or eager youngmen carrying miniature slide rules.
But on this day came a woman and a little girl.
Their total visible possessions were two battered suitcases and onebattered trunk. The little girl was neatly dressed, in often-washed andmended clothing; she carried a small covered basket, and there werebreadcrumbs visible on the lid. She looked bewildered, shy andfrightened. She was.
The mother was thirty, though there were lines of worry on her foreheadand around her eyes that made her look older. She wore little makeup andher clothing had been bought for wear instead of for looks. She lookedaround, leaned absently down to pat the little girl and straightened asthe station-master came slowly out.
"Need anything, ma'am?" He was pleasant enough. Janet Bagley appreciatedthat; life had not been entirely pleasant for her for some years.
"I need a taxicab, if there is one."
"There is. I run it after the train gets in for them as ain't met. You'renot goin' to the college?" He pronounced it "collitch."
Janet Bagley shook her head and took a piece of paper from her bag. "Mr.Charles Maxwell, Rural Route Fifty-three, Martin's Hill Road," she read.Her daughter began to whimper.
The station-master frowned. "Hum," he said, "that's the Herm--er, d'youknow him?"
Mrs. Bagley said: "I've never met him. What kind of a man is he?"
That was the sort of question the station-master appreciated. His job wasneither demanding nor exciting; an opportunity to talk was worth having.He said cheerfully, "Why, I don't rightly know, ma'am. Nobody's ever seenhim."
"Nobody?"
"Nope. Nobody. Does everything by mail."
"My goodness, what's the matter with him?"
"Don't rightly know, ma'am. Story is he was once a professor and got insome kind of big explosion. Burned the hide off'n his face and scarred uphis hands something turrible, so he don't want to show himself. Rentedthe house by mail, pays his rent by mail. Orders stuff by mail. Mostlynot real U-nited States Mail, y'know, because we don't mind dropping offa note to someone in town. I'm the local mailman, too. So when I find anote to Herby Wharton, the fellow that owns the general store, I drop itoff. Margie Clark over at the bank says he writes. Gets checks from NewYork from publishing companies." The station-master looked around as ifhe were looking for Soviet spies. "He's a scientist, all right. He'sdoin' something important and hush-hush up there. Lots and lots of boxesand packin' cases I've delivered up there from places like CentralScientific and Labotory Supply Company. Must be a smart feller. Youvisitin' him?"
"Well, he hired me for housekeeper. By mail." Mrs. Bagley looked puzzledand concerned.
Little Martha began to cry.
"It'll be all right," said the station-master soothingly. "You keep youreye open," he said to Mrs. Bagley. "Iff'n you see anything out of line,you come right back and me and the missus will give you a lift. But he'sall right. Nothin' goin' on up there that I know of. Fred Riordan--he'sthe sheriff--has watched the place for days and days and it's alwaysquiet. No visitors. No nothin'. Know what I think? I think he'sexperimenting with something to take away the burn scars. That's whutI think. Well, hop in and I'll drive you out there."
"Is it going to cost much?"
"Nothin' this trip. We'll charge it to the U-nited States Mail. Got apackage goin' out. Was waitin' for something else to go along with it,but you're here and we can count that. This way to the only taxicabservice in Shipmont."
The place looked deserted. It was a shabby old clapboard house; thearchitecture of the prosperous farmer of seventy-five years ago. Thegrounds were spacious but the space was filled with scrub weeds. Apicket fence surrounded the weeds with uncertain security. Thewindows--those that could be seen, that is--were dirty enough to preventseeing inside with clarity, and what transparency there was left wascovered by curtains. The walk up the "lawn" was flagstone with crabgrassbetween the stones.
The station-master unshipped the small trunk and stood it just inside thefence. He parked the suitcases beside it. "Never go any farther thanthis," he explained. "So far's I know, you're the first person to everhead up thet walk to the front door."
Mrs. Bagley rapped on the door. It opened almost instantly.
"I'm--" then Mrs. Bagley dropped her eyes to the proper level. To the ladwho was standing there she said, "I'm Mrs. Bagley. Your father--a Mr.Charles Maxwell is expecting me."
"Come in," said Jimmy Holden. "Mr. Maxwell--well, he isn't my father. Hesent me to let you in."
Mrs. Bagley entered and dropped her suitcases in the front hall. Marthaheld back behind her mother's skirt. Jimmy closed the door and locked itcarefully, but left the key in the keyhole with a gesture that Mrs.Bagley could not mistake. "Please come in here and sit down," said JamesHolden. "Relax a moment." He turned to look at the girl. He smiled ather, but she cowered behind her mother's skirt as if she wanted to buryher face but was afraid to lose sight of what was going on around her.
"What's your name?" asked James.
She retreated, hiding most of her face. Mrs. Bagley stroked her hair andsaid, "Now, Martha, come on. Tell the little boy your name."
Purely as a matter of personal pride, James Holden objected to the"little boy" but he kept his peace because he knew that at eight yearsold he was still a little boy. In a soothing way, James said, "Come onout, Martha. I'll show you some girl-type toys we've got."
The girl's head emerged slowly, "I'm Martha Bagley," she announced.
"How old are you?"
"I'm seven."
"I'm eight," stated James. "Come on."
Mrs. Bagley looked around. She saw that the dirt on the windows was allon the outside. The inside was clean. So was the room. So were thecurtains. The room needed a dusting--a most thorough dusting. It had beengiven a haphazard lick-and-a-promise cleanup not too long ago, but thecleanup before that had been as desultory as the last, and without adoubt the one before and the one before that had been of the same sort ofhalf-hearted cleaning. As a woman and a housekeeper, Mrs. Bagley foundthe room a bit strange.
The furniture caught her eye first. A standard open bookcase, a low sofa,a very low cocktail-type table. The chair she stood beside was standardlooking, so was the big easy chair opposite. Yet she felt large in theroom despite its old-fashioned high ceiling. There were several lowfootstools in the room; ungraceful things that were obviously woodenboxes covered with padding and leatherette. The straight chair beside herhad been lowered; the bottom rung between the legs was almost on thefloor.
She realized why she felt big. The furniture in the room had all been cutdown.
She continued to look. The strangeness continued to bother her and sherealized that there were no ash trays; there was none of the usualclutter of things that a family drops in their tracks. It was a roomfashioned for a small person to live in but it wasn't lived-in.
The lack of hard cleanliness did not bother hervery much. There had beenan effort here, and the fact that this Charles Maxwell was hiring ahousekeeper was in itself a statement that the gentleman knew that heneeded one. It was odd, but it wasn't ominous.
She shook her daughter gently and said, "Come on, Martha. Let's take alook at these girl-type toys."
James led them through a short hallway, turned left at the first door,and then stood aside to give them a full view of the room. It was aplayroom for a girl. It was cleaner than the living room, and as--well,untouched. It had been furnished with girl-toys that some catalog"recommended as suitable for a girl of seven."
The profusion of toys ove
rwhelmed little Martha. She stood just inside ofthe door with her eyes wide, glancing back and forth. She took one slowstep forward, then another. Then she quickened. She moved through theroom looking, then putting out a slow, hesitant hand to touch verygently. Tense, as if she were waiting for the warning not to touch,Martha finally caressed the hair of a baby doll.
Mrs. Bagley smiled. "I'll have a time prying her loose from here," shesaid.
James nodded his head. "Let her amuse herself for a bit," he said. "WithMartha occupied, you can give your attention to a more delicate matter."
Mrs. Bagley forgot that she was addressing an eight-year-old boy. Hismanner and his speech bemused her. "Yes," she said. "I do want to getthis settled with your mysterious Charles Maxwell. Do you expect himdown, or shall I go upstairs--?"
"This may come as a shock, Mrs. Bagley, but Charles Maxwell isn't here."
"Isn't here?" she echoed, in a tone of voice that clearly indicated thatshe had heard the words but hadn't really grasped their full meaning. "Hewon't be gone long, will he?"
James watched her covertly, then said in a matter-of-fact voice, "He leftyou a letter."
"Letter?"
"He was called away on some urgent business."
"But--"
"Please read the letter. It explains everything."
He handed her an envelope addressed to "Mrs. Janet Bagley." She lookedat it from both sides, in the womanlike process of trying to divine itscontents instead of opening it. She looked at James, but James satstolidly waiting. Mrs. Bagley was going to get no more information fromhim until she read that letter, and James was prepared to sit it outuntil she did. It placed Mrs. Bagley in the awkward position of havingto decide what to do next. Then the muffled sound of little-girl crooningcame from the distant room. That brought the realization that as odd asthis household was, it was a _home_. Mrs. Bagley delayed no further. Sheopened the letter and read:
My Dear Mrs. Bagley:
I deeply regret that I am not there to greet you, but it was not possible. However, please understand that insofar as I am concerned, you were hired and have been drawing your salary from the date that I forwarded railroad fare and traveling expenses. Any face-to-face meeting is no more than a pleasantry, a formal introduction. It must not be considered in any way connected with the thought of a "Final Interview" or the process of "Closing the Deal."
Please carry on as if you had been in charge long before I departed, or--considering my hermitlike habits--the way you would have carried on if I had not departed, but instead was still upstairs and hard at work with most definite orders that I was not to be disturbed for anything less important than total, personal disaster.
I can offer you a word of explanation about young James. You will find him extraordinarily competent for a youngster of eight years. Were he less competent, I might have delayed my departure long enough to pass him literally from my supervision to yours. However, James is quite capable of taking care of himself; this fact you will appreciate fully long before you and I meet face-to-face.
In the meantime, remember that our letters and the other references acquaint us with one another far better than a few short hours of personal contact.
Sincerely, Charles Maxwell
"Well!" said Mrs. Bagley. "I don't know what to say."
Jimmy smiled. "You don't have to say anything," he said.
Mrs. Bagley looked at the youngster. "I don't think I like your Mr.Maxwell," she said.
"Why not?"
"He's practically shanghaied me here. He knows very well that I couldn'tpossibly leave you here all alone, no matter how I disliked thesituation. He's practically forced me to stay."
James suppressed a smile. He said, "Mrs. Bagley, the way the trains runin and out of Shipmont, you're stuck for an overnight stay in any case."
"You don't seem to be perturbed."
"I'm not," he said.
Mrs. Bagley looked at James carefully. His size; his physique wasprecisely that of the eight-year-old boy. There was nothing malformed norout-of-proportion; yet he spoke with an adult air of confidence.
"I am," she admitted.
"Perturbed? You needn't be," he said. "You've got to remember thatwriters are an odd lot. They don't conform. They don't punch time-clocks.They boast of having written a novel in three weeks but they don'tmention the fact that they sat around drinking beer for six monthsplotting it."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning that Maxwell sees nothing wrong in attending to his own affairsand expecting you to attend to yours."
"But what shall I do?"
James smiled. "First, take a look around the house and satisfy yourself.You'll find the third floor shut off; the rooms up there are Maxwell's,and no one goes in but him. My bedroom is the big one in the front of thesecond floor. Pick yourself a room or a suite of rooms or move in allover the rest of the house. Build yourself a cup of tea and relax. Do ashe says: Act as if you'd arrived before he took off, that you'd met andagreed verbally to do what you've already agreed to do by letter. Look atit from his point of view."
"What is his point of view?"
"He's a writer. He rented this house by mail. He banks by mail and shopsby mail and makes his living by writing. Don't be surprised when he hiresa housekeeper by mail and hands her the responsibility in writing. Helives by the written word."
Mrs. Bagley said, "In other words, the fact that he offered me a job inwriting and I took it in writing--?"
"Writing," said James Holden soberly, "was invented for the expresspurpose of recording an agreement between two men in a permanent formthat could be read by other men. The whole world runs on the theory thatno one turns a hand until names are signed to written contracts--and hereyou sit, not happy because you weren't contracted-for by a personalchit-chat and a handshake."
Mrs. Bagley was taken aback slightly by this rather pointed criticism.What hurt was the fact that, generally speaking, it was true andespecially the way he put it. The young man was too blunt, tooout-spokenly direct. Obviously he needed someone around the place whowasn't the self-centered writer-type. And, Mrs. Bagley admitted toherself, there certainly was no evidence of evil-doing here.
No matter what, Charles Maxwell had neatly trapped her into staying byturning her own maternal responsibility against her.
"I'll get my bags," she said.
James Holden took a deep breath. He'd won this hurdle, so far so good.Now for the next!
Mrs. Bagley found life rather unhurried in the days that followed. Sherelaxed and tried to evaluate James Holden. To her unwarned mind, the boywas quite a puzzle.
There was no doubt about his eight years, except that he did not whoopand holler with the aimlessness of the standard eight-year-old boy. Hisvocabulary was far ahead of the eight-year-old and his speech was inadult grammar rather than halting. It was, she supposed, due to hisconstant adult company; children denied their contemporaries forplaymates often take on attitudes beyond their years. Still, it was a biton the too-superior side to please her. It was as if he were the resultof over-indulgent parents who'd committed the mistake of letting thechild know that their whole universe revolved about him.
Yet Maxwell's letters said that he was motherless, that he was notMaxwell's son. This indicated a probable history of broken homes andremarriages. Mrs. Bagley thought the problem over and gave it up. Itwas a home.
Things went on. They started warily but smoothly at first with Mrs.Bagley asking almost incessantly whether Mr. Maxwell would approve ofthis or that and should she do this or the other and, phrased cleverly,indicated that she would take the word of young James for the time beingbut there would be evil sputterings in the fireplace if the programsapproved by young James Holden were not wholly endorsed by Mr. CharlesMaxwell.
At the end of the first week, supplies were beginning to run short andstill there was no sign of any return of the missing Mr. Maxwell. Withsome misgiving, Mrs. Bagley broached the subject of shopping to James.The youngste
r favored Mrs. Bagley with another smile.
"Yes," he said calmly. "Just a minute." And he disappeared upstairs tofetch another envelope. Inside was a second letter which read:
My Dear Mrs. Bagley:
Attached you will find letters addressed to several of the local merchants in Shipmont, explaining your status as my housekeeper and directing them to honor your purchases against my accounts. Believe me, they recognize my signature despite the fact that they might not recognize me! There should be no difficulty. I'd suggest, however, that you start a savings account at the local bank with the enclosed salary check. You have no idea how much weight the local banker carries in his character-reference of folks with a savings account.
Otherwise, I trust things are pleasant.
Sincerely, Charles Maxwell.
"Things," she mused aloud, "are pleasant enough."
James nodded. "Good," he said. "You're satisfied, then?"
Mrs. Bagley smiled at him wistfully. "As they go," she said, "I'msatisfied. Lord knows, you're no great bother, James, and I'll be mosthappy to tell Mr. Maxwell so when he returns."
James nodded. "You're not concerned over Maxwell, are you?"
She sobered. "Yes," she said in a whisper. "Yes, I am. I'm afraid thathe'll change things, that he'll not approve of Martha, or the way dinneris made, or my habits in dishwashing or bedmaking or marketing orsomething that will--well, put me right in the role of a paidchambermaid, a servant, a menial with no more to say about the runningof the house, once he returns."
James Holden hesitated, thought, then smiled.
"Mrs. Bagley," he said apologetically, "I've thrown you a lot of curves.I hope you won't mind one more."
The woman frowned. James said hurriedly, "Oh, it's nothing bad, believeme. I mean--Well, you'll have to judge for yourself.
"You see, Mrs. Bagley," he said earnestly, "there isn't any CharlesMaxwell."
* * * * *
Janet Bagley, with the look of a stricken animal, sat down heavily. Therewere two thoughts suddenly in her mind: _Now I've got to leave_, and,_But I can't leave_.
She sat looking at the boy, trying to make sense of what he had said.Mrs. Bagley was a young woman, but she had lived a demanding andunrelenting life; her husband dead, her finances calamitous, a baby tofeed and raise ... there had been enough trouble in her life and shesought no more.
But she was also a woman of some strength of character.
Janet Bagley had not been able to afford much joy, but when things wereat their worst she had not wept. She had been calm. She had taken whatinexpensive pleasures she could secure--the health of her daughter, thestrength of her arms to earn a living, the cunning of her mind to make adollar do the work of five. She had learned that there was no bargainthat was not worth investigating; the shoddiest goods were worth owningat a price; the least attractive prospect had to be faced and understood,for any commodity becomes a bargain when the price is right. There wasno room for laziness or indulgence in her life. There was also no roomfor panic.
So Janet Bagley thought for a moment, and then said: "Tell me what you'retalking about, James."
James Holden said immediately: "I am Charles Maxwell. That is, 'CharlesMaxwell' is a pen name. He has no other existence."
"But--"
"But it's true, Mrs. Bagley," the boy said earnestly. "I'm only eightyears old, but I happen to be earning my own living--as a writer, underthe name of, among others, Charles Maxwell. Perhaps you've looked up someof the 'Charles Maxwell' books? If so, you may have seen some of the bookreviews that were quoted on the jackets--I remember one that said thatCharles Maxwell writes as though he himself were a boy, with theeducation of an adult. Well, that's the fact of the case."
Mrs. Bagley said slowly, "But I did look Mr. Max--I mean, I did look youup. There was a complete biographical sketch in _Woman's Life_.Thirty-one years old, I remember."
"I know. I wrote it. It too was fiction."
"You wrote--but why?"
"Because I was asked to write it," said James.
"But, well--what I mean, is--Just who is Mr. Maxwell? The man at thestation said something about a hermit, but--"
"The Hermit of Martin's Hill is a convenient character carefully preparedto explain what might have looked like a very odd household," said JamesHolden. "Charles Maxwell, the Hermit, does not exist except in the mindsof the neighbors and the editors of several magazines, and of course, thereaders of those pages."
"But he wrote me himself." The bewildered woman paused.
"That's right, Mrs. Bagley. There's absolutely nothing illegal about awriter's using a pen name. Absolutely nothing. Some writers become sowell-known by their pseudonym that they answer when someone calls them.So long as the writer isn't wanted by the F.B.I. for some heinous crime,and so long as he can unscramble the gobbledygook on Form 1040, stay outof trouble, pay his rent, and make his regular contributions to SocialSecurity, nobody cares what name he uses."
"But where are your parents? Have you no friends? No legal guardian? Whohandles your business affairs?"
James said in a flat tone of recital, "My parents are dead. What friendsand family I have, want to turn me over to my legal guardian. My legalguardian is the murderer of my parents and the would-have-been murdererof me if I hadn't been lucky. Someday I shall prove it. And I handle myaffairs myself, by mail, as you well know. I placed the advertisement,wrote the letters of reply, wrote those letters that answered specificquestions and asked others, and I wrote the check that you cashed inorder to buy your railroad ticket, Mrs. Bagley. No, don't worry. It'sgood."
Mrs. Bagley tried to digest all that and failed. She returned to thecentral point. "But you're a minor--"
"I am," admitted James Holden. "But you accepted my checks, your bankaccepted my checks, and they've been honored by the clearing houses. Myown bank has been accepting them for a couple of years now. It willcontinue to be that way until something goes wrong and I'm found out. I'mtaking every precaution that nothing goes wrong."
"Still--"
"Mrs. Bagley, look at me. I am precisely what I seem to be. I am a youngmale human being, eight years old, possessed of a good command of theEnglish language and an education superior to the schooling of anyhigh-school graduate. It is true that I am an infant in the eyes of thelaw, so I have not the right to hold the ear of the law long enough toexplain my competence."
"But--"
"Listen a moment," insisted James. "You can't hope to hear it all in oneshort afternoon. It may take weeks before you fully understand."
"You assume that I'll stay, then?"
James smiled. Not the wide open, simple smile of youth but the knowingsmile of someone pleased with the success of his own plans. "Mrs. Bagley,of the many replies to my advertisement, yours was selected because youare in a near-desperate position. My advertisement must have soundedtailor-made to fit your case; a young widow to work as residenthousekeeper, child of preschool or early school age welcome. Well, Mrs.Bagley, your qualifications are tailor-made for me, too. You are in need,and I can give you what you need--a living salary, a home for you andyour daughter, and for your daughter an education that will far transcendany that you could ever provide for her."
"And how do you intend to make that come to pass?"
"Mrs. Bagley, at the present time there are only two people alive whoknow the answer to that question. I am one of them. The other is myso-called legal 'guardian' who would be most happy to guard me right outof my real secret. You will be the third person alive to know that mymother and father built a machine that produces the same deeply-inlaidmemory-track of information as many months of learning-by-repetition.With that machine, I absorbed the information available to a high-schoolstudent before I was five. I am rebuilding that machine now from plansand specifications drilled into my brain by my father. When it iscomplete, I intend to become the best informed person in the world."
"That isn't right," breathed Mrs. Bagley.
&
nbsp; "Isn't it?" asked James seriously. "Isn't it right? Is it wrong, when atthe present time it takes a man until he is almost thirty years oldbefore he can say that his education is complete?"
"Well, I suppose you're right."
James eyed Mrs. Bagley carefully. He said softly, "Mrs. Bagley, tell me,would you give Martha a college education if you had--or will you if youhave at the time--the wherewithal to provide it?"
"Of course."
"You have it here," said James. "So long as you stay to protect it."
"But won't it make--?" her voice trailed away uncertainly.
"A little intellectual monster out of her?" laughed the boy. "Maybe.Maybe I am, too. On the other hand it might make a brilliant woman out ofher. She might be a doctor if she has the capacity of a brilliant doctor.My father's machine is no monster-maker, Mrs. Bagley. With it a personcould memorize the Britannica. And from the Britannica that person wouldlearn that there is much good in the world and also that there is richreward for being a part of that capacity for good."
"I seem to have been outmaneuvered," said Mrs. Bagley with a worriedfrown.
James smiled. "Not at all," he said. "It was just a matter of findingsomeone who wanted desperately to have what I wanted to give, and ofcourse overcoming the natural adult reluctance to admit that anybodymy size and age can operate on grown-up terms."
"You sound so sure of yourself."
"I am sure of myself. And one of the more important things in life is tounderstand one's limitations."
"But couldn't you convince them--?"
"One--you--I can convince. Maybe another, later. But if I tackle thegreat American public, I'm licked by statistics. My guess is that thereis one brand-new United States citizen born every ten seconds. It takesme longer than ten seconds to convince someone, that I know what I'mtalking about. But so long as I have an accepted adult out front, runningthe store, I don't have to do anything but sit backstage, run the hiddenstrings, and wait until my period of growth provides me with a staturethat won't demand any explanation."
From the playroom, Martha came running. "Mummy! Mummy!" she cried in ashrill voice filled with the strident tones of alarm, "Dolly's sick andI can't leave her!"
Mrs. Bagley folded her daughter in her arms. "We won't leave," she said."We're staying."
James Holden nodded with satisfaction, but one thing he realized then andthere: He simply had to rush the completion of his father's machine.
He could not stand the simpering prattle of Martha Bagley's playgames.