XVI
It was a long ride to Cresset's Crossing, first on the main line to theJunction and then just time to make a close connection with the branchline to the Crossing.
It was three when we reached there and started out to walk to Cresset'sFarm. There'd been rain the day before and the road was muddy, withwater standing here and there in the ruts. The weather was stillovercast, the sky covered with clouds, heavy and leaden colored. It wascold, a raw, piercing air, and we walked fast, I--careful of my newdress--picking my steps on the edge of the road and Babbitts trampingalong in the mud beside me.
I'd never been up there at that season and I thought it was a gloomy,lonesome spot. The land rolled away with fences creeping across it likegray snakes. Here and there were clumps of woods, purplish against thesky, and between them the brown stretches of plowed land, that in thespringtime would be green with the grain. Now, under those dark,low-hanging clouds with the naked trees and the bare, empty fields, itlooked forlorn and dreary. It was as still as a picture, not a thingmoving, but one man, someways off, walking along the top of a hill. Youcould see him like a silhouette, going slow, with a bundle on a stickover his shoulder, and a bit of red round his neck. When he got to thehighest point he stopped and looked down on the road. He couldn't seeus--the trees interfered--and he seemed, as Babbitts said, like thespirit of the landscape--sort of desolate and lonely, plodding alongthere, solitary and slow, between the earth and the sky. Then presentlyeven he was gone, disappearing over the brow of the hill.
When we passed the Riven Rock Road and I could see the Firehill one,making a curving line through the country beyond, I had a creepyfeeling, thinking of what had happened there eight weeks ago.
"Where's the place?" I said, almost in a whisper, and Babbitts pointedahead with his cane.
"A little further on, where the bushes grow thick there."
Right along from the station, clumps and bunches of small trees hadedged the way like a hedge. After we passed the Riven Rock Road theygrew thicker, making a sort of shrubbery higher than our heads. Iremembered that just before the murder men had been cutting these forbrushwood and even now we passed piles of branches, dry and dead, withlittle leaves clinging to them like brown rags. Where the Firehill Roadran into the turnpike the growth was tangled and close, almost a smallwood.
It wasn't far beyond that Babbitts pointed out the place. There was anedge of shriveled grass and on this she had been found with the branchespiled over her. He drew with his cane where she had lain between thetrees and the road.
"You can see just how the murderer worked," he said. "He attacked MissHesketh here, burst out of the darkness on her and killed her with oneblow--you remember there was no sign either about her or thesurroundings of a struggle--and almost immediately heard the Doctor'sauto horn. We can place that by the scream the Bohemian woman heard."
"Do you think he was there when the Doctor passed?" I asked.
"Of course he was. He hadn't had time to arrange the body. That was doneafter the Doctor had gone by--done after the moon came out. Reddy saidit was as bright as day when he got there. By that brightness themurderer did the work of concealment."
I stepped back into the mud and looked down to where the Firehill Roadentered the turnpike a few yards farther on.
"He must have heard Mr. Reddy's horn before the car came in sight. Bythat time he had probably finished and stolen away."
"I don't think so," said Babbitts. "He couldn't have done it withoutsome noise and Reddy, who was listening and watching for Sylvia, waspositive there wasn't a sound. That human devil was back among thebushes when Reddy's car came round the turn. And he must have stayedthere--afraid to move--watching Reddy, first as he waited, then as heslowly ran back and forth. God, what a situation--one man looking forthe woman he loved, her murderer hidden a few yards from him, andbetween them both her dead body!"
I seemed to see it: the road bathed in moonlight, the murderer huddleddown in the black shadow, and Reddy in the car looking now this way andnow that, expecting her to come. How terribly still it must have been,not a sound except the rustling of the withered leaves. I could imaginethe light from the racer's lamps, shooting out in two long yellow rays,showing every rut and ridge, so that that grim watching face had to drawdown lower still in the darkness of the underbrush. Did he know whoReddy was waiting for? What did he feel when the auto moved and oneswerve sideways would have sent those yellow rays over the heap ofbranches on the grass? As Babbitts said, he must have been afraid tomove, must have cowered there and seen the racer glide away and thencome back; and still bent behind the network of twigs have watched theman at the wheel, as he looked up and down the road, waited andlistened, every now and then sounding the horn, that broke into thesilence like a weird, hollow cry.
"Oh, come on," I said suddenly, seizing Babbitts' arm. "Let's go up toCresset's where it's bright and cheerful."
We had a lovely time at Cresset's. My, but they were a nice family!Farmer Cresset, a big, kind, jolly man and his two sons, splendid,sun-burned chaps, and his little daughter, as fresh as a peach and asshy as a kitten. I loved them all, and Mrs. Cresset best. She made methink of my mother, not that she looked like her, but I guess becauseshe had something about her that's about all women who've had familiesthey loved.
They gave us tea and cake and they joked Babbitts good and hard aboutcoming out there and pretending to be a tourist.
"Never mind, son," Farmer Cresset said, "you got it out of the oldwoman. I couldn't make her tell; seemed like she thought she'd bearrested for the crime if she up and confessed about that feller."
It was getting on for evening when we left to go to the Wayside Arbor.We'd planned to have our supper there and then go back by the branchline, catching a train at the Crossing at eight-thirty. The Cressetswere real sorry to have us go, especially there.
"It ain't a nice place," said Mrs. Cresset, as she kissed me good-bye,"but we're hoping to see it cleared out soon. Tom's stirring Heaven andearth to get Hines' license revoked."
"I guess Heaven's lending a hand," said the farmer, "for I hear Hines'business is bad since the fatality. We've a lot of foreign labor roundhere and they're mighty superstitious and are giving his place thego-by."
It was dark when we saw the lights of the Wayside Arbor, shining outacross the road. We'd expected a moon to light us home, but the clouds,though they weren't as thick as they had been, were all broken up intolittle bits over the sky, like Heaven was paved with them.
The Arbor was quiet as we stepped up and opened the bar door, and there,just like on the night of the murder, was Hines, sitting by the stovereading a newspaper. He jumped up quick and greeted us very cordial andyou could see he was glad to get a customer. He sure was a tough lookingspecimen with a gray stubble all over his chin, and a dirty sweaterhanging open over a dirtier shirt that had no collar and was fastenedwith a fake gold button that left a black mark on his neck. If I thoughthis looks were bad that day in the summer I thought they were worse now,for he seemed more down and dispirited than he was then.
We asked him if we could have supper and he went out, calling to Mrs.Hines, and we could hear someone clattering down the stairs and then awhispering going on in the hall. When he came back he said they'd get usa cold lunch, but they didn't keep a great deal on hand, seeing as howthey hadn't much call for meals at that season.
You could see that was true. I never was in such a miserable,poverty-stricken hole. Leaving Babbitts talking to Hines in the bar, Iwent back into the dining-room, a long, shabby place that crossed therear of the house. It was as dingy as the rest of it, with the paper allsmudged and peeling off the walls and worn bits of carpet laid over theboard floor. At the back two long windows looked out on the garden.Glancing through these I could see the arch of the arbor, with the wetshining on the tables and a few withered leaves trembling on the vines.
When I turned back to the room I got a queer kind of scare--a thing Iwould have laughed at anywhere else, but in that house on
that night itturned me creepy. There was a long, old-fashioned mirror on the oppositewall with a crack going straight across the middle of it. As I caught myreflection in it, I raised my head, wanting to get the effect of my newhat, and it brought the crack exactly across my neck. Believe me Ijumped and then stood staring, for it looked just as if my throat wascut! Then I moved away from it, pulling up my collar, ashamed of myselfbut all the same keeping out of range of the mirror.
In the bar I could hear the voices of Babbitts and Hines, Hines droningon like a person who's complaining. From behind a door at the far end ofthe room came a noise of crockery and pans and then a woman's voice,peevish and scolding, and another woman's answering back. I don't thinkI ever was in a place that got on my nerves so and what with the cold ofthe room--it was like a barn with no steam and the stove not lit--I satall hunched up in my coat thinking of Sylvia Hesketh coming _there_ forshelter!
Suddenly the door at the end of the room opened and Mrs. Hines came in.She was the match of it all, with her red nose and her little wateryeyes and her shoes dropping off at every step so you could hear theheels rapping on the boards where the carpet stopped. She began talkingin a whining voice, and as she set the table, told me how the businesshad gone off, and they didn't know what they were going to do.
Her hands, all chapped and full of knots like twigs, smoothed out thecloth and put on the china so listless it made you tired to look atthem. It was better talking to her than sitting dumb with no company butdismal thoughts, so I encouraged her and between her trailings into thekitchen and her trailings out I heard all about their affairs.
For a while after the murder they'd done a lot of business--it made mesort of shrivel up to see she didn't mind that; anything that broughttrade was all the same to her--but now, nothing was doing. Only a fewautomobiles stopped there and the farmhands had dropped off, so theircustom hardly counted. And Tecla Rabine, the Bohemian servant, who was afirst-class girl, if she did have grouchy spells, had got so slack she'dhave to be fired, and she, Mrs. Hines, didn't see how she was to getanother one what with the low wages and the lonesomeness.
She trailed off into the kitchen again and I could hear her snapping atsomeone and that other woman's voice growling back. I supposed it wasTecla Rabine, though it didn't sound like her, my memory of her at theinquest being of a fat, good-natured thing that wouldn't have growled atanybody. And then the door was opened with one swift kick and Tecla camein, carrying a plate of bread in one hand and a platter with ham on itin the other. She didn't look grouchy at all, but gave me that broad,silly sort of smile I remembered and put the things down on the table!
"Well, Tecla," I asked for something to say, "how are _you_ getting on?"
"Ach!" she answered disgusted, and pounded over the creaky floor to acupboard out of which she took some dishes. "Me? I get out. What for doI stay? No luck here, no money. Who comes--nobody. Everything goes onthe blink."
She put the things on the table and then stood looking at me, squintingup her little eyes and with her big body, in a dirty white blouse and askirt that didn't meet it at the waist, slouched up against the table.
"I heard business was bad," I said, and thought that in spite of herbeing such a coarse, fat animal, she was rosy and healthy looking, whichwas more than you could say for the other two.
"What do I get?" she said, spreading out her great red hands, "not athing. Maybe five, ten cents. Every long time maybe a quarter. Sincethat lady gets killed all goes bad. The dagoes say 'evil eye.' They walkround the house that way," she made a half-circle in the air with herarm, "looking at it afraid. Me, too, I don't like it."
"It sure is awful dismal," I agreed.
"No good," she said. "Last year this time all the roomfull--to-night--_one_ man"--she held up a finger in the air--"one onlyman, and he have lost what makes us to laugh. When I see him, I say,'Hein, Tito, good luck now you come. Make the bear to dance.' And hesays this way"--she hunched up her shoulders and pushed out her handsthe way the Guineas do--"'Oh, Gawda, there is no more bear; he makesdead long time.'"
"Bear?" I said, and then I remembered. "You mean the one that went roundwith the acrobats. It's dead, is it?"
Tecla nodded.
"Gone dead in the country. And he says he starve now with no bear to getpennies. The boss says we all starve, and gave him a drink and cheeseand bread. Ach!"--she shook her head, as if the loss of the bear was thelast straw--"I no can stand it--nothing doing, no money, no morelaughs--I quit."
I didn't blame her. If you gave me two hundred a month I wouldn't havestayed there.
Just then Babbitts came in and we began our supper; cold ham and stalebread and coffee that I know was the morning's heated over. Tecla wentinto the kitchen and I said to him, low and guarded:
"What's Hines been saying to you?"
He answered in the same key:
"Oh, putting up a hard luck story. Cresset needn't bother. He wants topull up stakes and go West."
"Will they let him?"
"That's one of the things he's been talking about. He says if he makes amove it'll look suspicious, and if he stays he'll be ruined. Hecertainly is up against it."
I shot a glance from the kitchen to the bar door and then leaned acrossthe table, almost whispering:
"I don't see that our investigations have got us anything but a badsupper."
"Neither do I," he whispered back. "The place looks like a stage settingfor The Bandits' Den, but the people don't impress me that way at all."
The kitchen door swung back and Mrs. Hines came in with a pumpkin piethat tasted like it was baked for Thanksgiving. She hovered round,fussing about us and joining in the conversation. You could see she washungry for someone to talk to. Both she and her husband impressed methat way, as if they were most crazy with the dreariness of the place,and were ready to fasten on anybody who'd speak civil to them and listento their troubles.
Before we left, Babbitts went into the bar to settle up and I,remembering Tecla's complaints, called her in from the kitchen andfished a quarter out of my new purse. She was as pleased as a child,grinning all over, and wanting to shake hands with me, which I hated butcouldn't avoid.
When we were once more in the road I gave a gasp of relief. I felt as ifI'd crept out from under a shadow, that was gradually sinking into me,down to the marrow of my bones. The night was cold, but a differentkind; fresh and clear, the smell of the damp fields in the air, and thecountry quiet and peaceful.
We had a good two miles before us and stepped out lively. It was dark;the clouds mottled over the sky; and in one place, where the moon washidden, a little brightness showing through the cracks. Babbitts said hethought they'd break and that we'd have the moonlight on our way back.
All around us the landscape stretched black and still. When you gotaccustomed to it, you could see the outlines of the hills against thesky, one darkness set against another, and the line of the road showingfaint between the edgings of bushes. We couldn't hear anything but ourown footsteps, soft and padding because of the mud, and off and on therustling of the twigs as I brushed against them. I don't remember everbeing out on a quieter night, and there was something lovely andsoothing about it after that horrible house.
We hadn't gone far--about ten minutes, I should think--when I suddenlyclasped my wrist and felt that my purse was gone. I had taken it off togive Tecla the quarter and I remember I'd laid it on the supper tablewhen she made me shake hands.
"Oh dear!" I said, stopping short. "What shall I do--I've left my pursethere."
Babbitts stared at me through the dark.
"At Hines'?"
"Yes, on the supper table. And it's new, I'd only just bought it. Oh, I_can't_ lose it."
"You needn't. We've time, but you'll have to hit up the pace. Come onquick--that's not just the place I'd select to leave a purse in."
He turned to go but I stood still. I hated going back there and it waslovely walking slowly along through the sharp chill air and the peacefulnight.
"You go," I said, coaxing. "I'll saunter on and you can catch me up."
"Don't you mind being alone? Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid?" I gave a laugh. "I'm much more afraid in that queer joint.Besides, I can't go as fast as you can and whatever happens we've got tocatch that train."
"If you don't mind that's the best plan. I'll run both ways."
"Then hustle and I'll walk on slowly. But come whether you find thepurse or not, for that's the last train to the Junction to-night, and wemustn't lose it."
"Right you are, and we won't lose anything, the train or the purse. I'llmake it a rush order. Go slow till I come."
He turned and went off at a run and I walked on. At first I could hearthe thud of his feet quite plainly and then the sound was suddenlydeadened and I knew he was on the moist turf by the roadside. Thesilence closed down around me like a black curtain that seemed to beshutting me off from the rest of the world. I walked on slowly,gathering my skirts up from the wet and the twigs, as noiseless as ashadow in the dark of the trees.
I don't know how much further I went, but not very far because I couldjust make out the line of the Firehill Road curving down between thefields, when I heard behind me a fitful, stealthy rustling in thebushes.