Adventure Tales 6. H. Bedford-Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ he was released on parole, he came back here to get it. He couldn’t get the same room, but he was lucky enough to get a room upstairs, and there he laid his plans to get down here and recover the stuff he had planted.

      “I suppose he did a lot of thinking about it, while he was tucked away down in Joliet, and after a while he became—shall we say, a bit obsessed? Once located upstairs—he had a room at the back, I believe—his problem was to get into Ashenhurst’s room some time when Ashenhurst was out. It would seem at first glance to be an easy enough problem, but as it turned out it was a hard one. For one reason and another, he couldn’t gain access, and, finally he hit upon this mad scheme to force Ashenhurst out. I saw D’Arcy today, and he was able to give me some information that fitted in with my preconceived idea of things.

      “It was obvious from the first that Jordan’s amazing performance was to draw attention to himself, and after a bit it became equally obvious that he was trying to lure Ashenhurst from the house. But why? So that he, or somebody else, could get into Ashenhurst’s room. I preferred to believe it was somebody else—that Jordan was only a subordinate. This turned, out to be correct, for Jordan now has no idea what Wilcox wanted in this room. It was necessary to find a trace of somebody who for some years had been absent from society, who had occupied this room—at least, this house. D’Arcy remembered a number of men who might answer, among them Wilcox. I looked them all up in the police records, and Wilcox was the man. Under that name he had once been known to live at this address. He had lived here at the time he was sent to Joliet. And when I learned that recently he had been paroled, the whole case was clear. I knew that Bernard Wilcox was somewhere in or near this house, and that Jordan was his agent. I’m hanged if I know whether Wilcox’s scheme to draw Ashenhurst out was a stupid one or a very clever one. Its very madness bothered me, and kept me from guessing the motive earlier than I did.”

      D’Arcy, who had listened with many approving nods, now cleared his throat.

      “And exactly what did Wilcox want here?” he asked. “Where is this loot, Lavender?”

      Lavender rose to his feet and strode over to the corner of the room in which the convict had been at work.

      “It is under this splintered board,” he said. “As you represent authority here tonight, suppose you investigate.”

      The police captain was beside him at a bound. “By jigger!” he exclaimed, and fell furiously to work.

      With a resounding crack the board at length came up—and neatly packed beneath it, in the narrow groove, lay little packages of bills and papers, and a bag of jewels, that cleared the mystery of a dozen unsolved robberies.

      When the captain, with many eulogies and handclasps, had departed with his treasure, I turned with a broad grin to Jimmie Lavender, and found him grinning at me. The Hardens, who still remained, looked mystified, and Ashenhurst alternately puffed at his cigar and stroked his battered eye.

      “There is one question, Jimmie,” I began; but he took the words away from me.

      “That you don’t find an answer to! Neither do I! Gilly, and you, Ashenhurst, and you, too, Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Harden—you have seen me turn over two prisoners and a young fortune to the police. You have seen me do things that no doubt appear very clever. Yes, I am a very clever young man! And from first to last there has been one thing I didn’t know, and don’t know now. It has bothered me more than any one detail I have ever encountered; and there seems to be no answer. This case is ended—the men are locked up, or will be shortly—and I know that my reasoning throughout has been accurate and justified. But I’m hanged if I’m not still bothered by that one question. Tell them what it is, Gilly!”

      “Why didn’t Wilcox get in during the day when Ashenhurst was at work? Why did he wait until night when he knew Ashenhurst would be at home?”

      “There you have it!” agreed Lavender. “Why—exactly why? It was the obvious thing for him to do, the simplest thing to do, one would think. I have no doubt at all that he tried it and failed—but why? In the morning, no doubt, he would be likely to encounter Mrs. Harden on her cleaning-up expedition; but the afternoons were safe. He had a clear field. From at least one o’clock until five, the house would be practically deserted, and this room would be empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Why didn’t he, Ashenhurst?”

      A queer clucking noise sounded suddenly from the throat of Mrs. Harden. Her lips were working frantically. It was difficult to say whether she was about to laugh or weep. Lavender gazed upon her with growing suspicion.

      “Why, why—” she stammered, “the fact is, Mr. Ashenhurst—I didn’t think there would be any harm in it. I’m getting a bit old—and your bed is the best in the house, you know! I was sure you wouldn’t mind—The fact is, Mr. Ashenhurst, I always came in here for a bit of a nap in the afternoon—right after dinner—and slept till Mr. Harden came in at half-past five. I’m sure—”

      But if she ever finished her embarrassed speech, I did not hear the end, for in the midst of it Lavender, with a joyous roar, flung himself across the bed in question and laughed until he cried.

      LINES WRITTEN BY, OR TO, OR FOR, OR MAYBE AGAINST, THAT IGNOBLE OLD VIKING, HARALD HARDASS, KING OF THE CONEY & ORKNEY ISLANDS, by Avram Davidson

      Woe is me, and wella-

      day, that I set dreaming.

      See, the steaming turn-spit

      roast the ruptured roebuck.

      Mingle men with mead-horns,

      horns that hoist the highest,

      held in horny hand-grips.

      Often, o’er the Walrus-way,

      went the wicked Worm-ships.

      Scoffing, skim’d past Scilly-land,

      smote the smarmy strand-folk.

      Leering, lop’t their limbs loose.

      Debauched their daughters, drooling.

      Weary, over white-weave waves,

      calmly came to Norse-land.

      For the captives, cards we cut.

      Glittering gold did glut us,

      Limber lads neath larch-leaves.

      Pass by me now the potent pot,

      Venison roasts vainly.

      With rue and grue must guzzle gruel:

      Harold has the heart-burn.

      —Translated from the original Old High Middle Autochthonous

      THE MIRACLE, by John D. Swain

      I

      For hours we had ridden across desolate Champagne, our horses picking their way over the pockmarked terrain, littered with the incredible debris of a race of degenerates possessing the strength of men coupled with the wanton destructiveness of children.

      The heat of СКАЧАТЬ