Out of a Labyrinth

"You'll have no trouble about finding company," said mine host, with a benign smile. "As you say, Barney has been a good many times off. He hasn't kept the best of company. He's been too much with that Briggs."

"Yes," I assented, carelessly; "I have repeatedly warned him to let the fellow alone. Has he no occupation?"

"Briggs? he's a sort of extra hand for 'Squire Brookhouse; but, he plays more than he works," trifling with the leaves of his register, and then casting his eye slowly down the page before him. "Here's an odd thing, you might say," laughing, as he lifted his eye from the book, "I'm losing my most boisterous boarder and my quietest one at the same time."

"Indeed; who else is going?"

My entertainer cast a quick glance towards the occupant of the window, and lowered his voice as he replied:

"The gentleman in gray."

"In gray?" absently. "Oh! to be sure, a – a patent-right agent, is he not?"

Another glance toward the window, then lowering his voice an additional half tone, and favoring me with a knowing wink, he said:

"Have you heard anything concerning him?"

"Concerning the gentleman in gray?"

My entertainer nodded.

"Assuredly not," said I, affecting languid surprise. "Nothing wrong about the gentleman, I hope?"

"Nothing wrong, oh, no," leaning over the desk, and speaking slowly. "They say he is a detective."

"A detective!" This time my surprise was not entirely feigned. "Oh – is not that a sensationalism?"

"Well," said my host, reflectively, "I might think so if I had heard it from any of the ordinary loungers; – the fact is, I had no right to mention the matter. I don't think it is guessed at by many."

He was beginning to retire within himself. I felt that I must not lose my ground, and became at once more interested, more affable.

"Oh, I assure you, Mr. Holtz, I am quite interested. Do you really think the man a detective? Pray, rely on my discretion."

There were two hard, unpainted chairs behind the office desk, and some boxes containing cheap cigars, upon a shelf against the wall. I insinuated myself into one of the chairs, and presently, Mr. Holtz was seated near me in the other, smoking one of his own cigars, at my expense, while I, with a similar weed between my lips, drew from him, as best I could, all that he had heard and thought concerning Mr. Blake Simpson, the gentleman in gray.

It was not much when all told, but Mr. Holtz consumed a full hour in telling it.

Jim Long had been so frequently at the hotel since the advent of Blake and Dimber Joe, that mine host had remarked upon the circumstance, and, only two days ago, had rallied Jim upon his growing social propensities.

Whereupon, Jim had taken him aside, "quite privately and mysteriously," and confided to him the fact that he, Jim, had very good reason for believing Blake and Dimber, or, as my informer put it, "The gent in gray and the other stranger," to be detectives, who were secretly working in the interest of 'Squire Brookhouse.

What these very good reasons were, Jim had declined to state. But he had conjured Mr. Holtz to keep silent about the matter, as to bring the "detectives" into notice would be to impair their chances of ultimate success.

Mr. Holtz had promised to keep the secret, and he had kept it – two days. He should never think of mentioning the matter to any of his neighbors, he assured me fervently, as they, for the most part, being already much excited over the recent thefts, could hardly be expected to keep a discreet silence; but I, "being a stranger, and a different person altogether," might, in Mr. Holtz's opinion, be safely trusted.

I assured Mr. Holtz that he might rely upon me as he would upon himself, and he seemed quite satisfied with this rather equivocal statement.

Having heard all that mine host could tell, I remained in further conversation with him long enough to avoid any appearance of abruptness, and then, offering the stereotyped excuse, "letters to write," I took a second cigar, pressed another upon my companion, and nodding to him with friendly familiarity, sauntered away to meditate in solitude upon what I had just learned.

And so, if Mr. Holtz had not exaggerated, and Jim Long was not mistaken, Blake Simpson and Dimber Joe, two notorious prison birds, were vegetating in Trafton in the character of detectives!

What a satire on my profession! And yet, absurd and improbable as it seemed, it was not impossible. Indeed, did not this theory account for their seemingly aimless sojourn here?

Jim Long was not the man to perpetrate a causeless jest. Neither was he one to form a hasty conclusion, or to make an assertion without a motive.

Whether his statement were true or false, what had been his reason for confiding it to Mr. Holtz? It was not because of any especial friendship for, or attachment to, that gentleman. Jim had no intimates, and had he chosen such, Mr. Holtz, gossipping, idle, stingy, and shallow of brain, would scarcely have been the man.

Why, then, had he confided in the man?

Did he wish the report to circulate, and himself remain unknown as its author? Was there some individual whose ears he wished it to reach through the talkative landlord?

I paused in my reflections, half startled by a sudden thought.

Had this shrewd, incomprehensible Yankee guessed my secret? And was Mr. Holtz's story intended for me?

I arose to my feet, having formed a sudden resolution.

I would know the truth concerning Jim Long. I would prove him my friend or my enemy, and the story told by Mr. Holtz should be my weapon of attack.

As for Blake and Dimber, if they were figuring as dummy detectives, who had instigated their masquerade?

Again I started, confronted by a strange new thought.

'Squire Brookhouse had telegraphed to an agent to employ for him two detectives. My Chief had been unable to discover what officers had been employed. Carnes and myself, although we had kept a faithful lookout, had been able to discover no traces of a detective in Trafton. Indeed, except for ourselves and the two crooks, there were no strangers in the village, nor had there been since the robbery.

If Blake and Dimber were playing at detectives, why was it? Had the agent employed by 'Squire Brookhouse played him a trick, or had he been himself duped?

'Squire Brookhouse had telegraphed to his lawyer, it was said. A lawyer could have no motive for duping a wealthy client, nor would he be likely to be imposed upon or approached by such men as Blake and Dimber.

Had 'Squire Brookhouse procured the services of these men? And if so, why?

Carnes was endeavoring to sustain his rôle by taking a much needed nap upon his cot, but I now roused him with eager haste, and regaled his sleepy ears with the story I had just listened to below stairs.

At first he seemed only to see the absurdity of the idea, and he buried his face in the pillow, to stifle the merriment which rose to his lips at the thought of the protection such detectives would be likely to afford the innocent Traftonites.

Then he became wide awake and sufficiently serious, and we hastily discussed the possibilities of the case.

There was not much to be done in the way of investigation just then; Carnes would follow after Blake so long as it seemed necessary, or until he could inform me how to guard against any evil the crook might be intent upon.

Meantime I must redouble my vigilance, and let no movement of Dimber's escape my notice.

To this end I abandoned, for the present, my hastily formed resolution, to go at once in search of Jim Long, and bring about a better understanding between us. That errand, being of less importance than the surveillance of the rascal Dimber, could be left to a more convenient season, or so I reasoned in my pitiful blindness.

Where was my professional wisdom then? Where the unerring foresight, the fine instinct, that should have warned me of danger ahead?

Had these been in action, one man might have been saved a shameful stigma, and another, from the verge of the grave.

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 the two crooks.

They were both upon the piazza; Blake smoking a well-colored meerschaum and seemingly half asleep, and the Dimber, with his well-polished boot heels elevated to the piazza railing, reading from a brown volume, with a countenance expressive of absorbed interest.

I seated myself where I could observe both without seeming to do so, and tilting my hat over my nose, dropped into a lounging attitude. I suppose that I looked the personification of careless indolence. I know that I felt 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 these mysteries, I could only sit like a sleepy idiot, and furtively watch two rascals engaged in killing time, the one with a pipe, the other with a French novel. Uncomfortable, because the day was sultry, and the piazza chairs were hard, and constructed with little regard for the ease of the forms that would occupy them.

But there comes an end to all things, or so it is said. At last there came an end to my loitering on the warm piazza.

At the proper time Carnes came lumbering down-stairs seeming not yet sobered, but fully equipped for his journey. He took an affectionate leave of the landlord, receiving some excellent advice in return. And, after favoring me with a farewell speech, half maudlin, half impertinent, wholly absurd, and intended for the benefit of the lookers-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, but without so much as glancing toward Dimber Joe or myself. He walked sedately away, followed by the hotel factotum, who carried his natty traveling bag.

Still Dimber read on at his seemingly endless novel, and still I lounged about the porch, sometimes smoking, sometimes feigning sleep.

At last came supper time. I hailed it as a pleasant respite, and followed Dimber Joe to the dining room with considerable alacrity.

Dr. Bethel came in soon, looking grave and weary. We saluted each other, but Bethel seemed little inclined to talk, and I was glad not to be engaged in a conversation which might detain me at the table after Joe had left it.

Bethel, I knew, was much at the house of the Barnards. The shock caused by the loss of her husband, together with the fatigue occasioned by his illness, had prostrated Mrs. Barnard, who, it was said, was threatened with a fever, and Bethel was in constant attendance.

As yet there had been no opportunity for the renewal of the conversation, concerning the grave robbery, which had been interrupted more than a week since by Mr. Brookhouse, and afterwards effectually cut off by my flying visit to the city.

When the Dimber left the table I followed him almost immediately, only to again find him poring over that absorbing novel, and seemingly oblivious to all else.

Sundown came, and then twilight. As darkness gathered, Dimber Joe laid down his book with evident reluctance and carefully lighted a cigar.

Would he sit thus all the evening? I was chafing inwardly. Would the man do nothing to break this monotony?

Presently a merry whistle broke upon the stillness, and quick steps came down the street.

It was Charlie Harris and, as on a former occasion, he held a telegram in his hand.

"For you," he said, having peered hard at me through the gloom. "It came half 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 odd laugh, 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 was watching 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 and kept my own eyes upon his face while I said:

"I'm obliged to you, Harris, your writing is capital, and very easily read. No answer is required."

The shrewd twinkle of his eye assured me that he comprehended my meaning as well as my words.

I offered him a cigar, and lighted another for myself. Then we went out upon the piazza together.

We had been in the office less than four minutes, but in that time Dimber Joe had disappeared, French novel and all. Much annoyed I peered up and down the street.

To the left was the town proper, the stores, the depot, and other business places. To the right were dwellings and churches; a hill, the summit and sides adorned with the best residences of the village; then a hollow, where nestled Dr. Bethel's small cottage; and farther on, and back 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 expedition requiring stealth. Then I remembered that Joe had not left the hotel since dinner; probably he had gone to the post office.

Harris was returning in that direction. I ran down the steps and strolled townward in his company.

"It's deuced hot," said Harris, with characteristic emphasis, as he lifted his hat to wipe a perspiring brow. "My office is the warmest hole in town after the breeze goes down, and I've got to stay there until midnight."

"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 a little?"

"Yes, a little; but I'm blessed if I understand it. Business is unusually light just now. I needed an assistant more in the Fall and Winter."

"Indeed," I said, aloud. Then to myself, "But Carnes and I did not need one so much."

Our agency had done some splendid work for the telegraph company whose wires ran through Trafton; and I knew, before requesting a new operator in the town, that they stood ready to oblige my Chief to any extent compatible with their own business. And my Chief had been expeditious indeed.

"Then you look for your night operator by the down express?" I questioned, carelessly.

"Yes; they wired me that he would come to-night. I hope he'll be an obliging 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 as I 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 the vanished crook, and pondered.

Was Dimber about to strike? Had he strolled out thus early to reconnoiter his territory? If so, he would return anon to equip himself for the work; he could not well carry a burglar's kit in the light suit he wore.

Suddenly I arose and hurried up the stairs, resolved upon a bold measure.

Hastily unlocking my trunk, I removed a tray, and from a skillfully concealed compartment, took a pair of nippers, some skeleton keys, and a small tin case, shaped like the candle it contained. Next, I removed my hat, coat, and boots; and, in another moment, was standing before the door of the room occupied by Dimber Joe. I knocked lightly and the silence 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 within the room, making a hasty survey of Dimber Joe's effects.

Aided again by my skeleton keys, I hurriedly opened and searched the two valises. They were as honest as they looked.

The first contained a liberal supply of polished linen, a water-proof coat and traveling-cap, together with other articles of clothing, and two or three novels. The second held the clerical black suit worn by Dimber on the evening of his arrival in Trafton; a brace of linen dusters, a few articles of the toilet, and a small six-shooter.

There was nothing else; no concealed jimmy, no "tools" of any description.

It might have been the outfit of a country parson, but for the novels and the revolver. This latter was loaded, and, without any actual motive for so doing, I extracted the cartridges and put them in my pocket.

In another moment I was back in my own room, baffled, disappointed, and puzzled 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 seemed to him, but to me it was simplicity itself. The dispatch was from Carnes, and it said:

"He is coming back."

Simplicity itself, as the reader will see, by comparing the letters and the words.

"He is coming back." This being interpreted, meant, "Blake Simpson is now returning to Trafton."

Was I growing imbecile?

Blake Simpson had departed in the daylight, doubtless taking the "tools of his trade" with him, hence the innocent appearance of his partner's room, for partners, I felt assured, they were.

He was returning under cover of the darkness; Dimber had gone out to meet him, and before morning, Trafton would be supplied with a fresh sensation.

How was I to act? How discover their point of attack?

It yet lacked more than two hours of midnight. Trafton had not yet gone to sleep.

Blake was coming back, but how?

My telegram came from a village fifteen miles distant. Blake then must have left the train at that point, and Carnes had followed him. He had followed him until assured that he was actually returning to Trafton, and then he had sent the message.

Blake might return in two ways. He might hire a conveyance and drive back to Trafton, or he might walk back as far as the next station, a distance of five miles, and there wait for the night express.

It seemed hardly probable that he would care to court notice by presenting himself at an inn or livery stable. He would be more apt to walk away from the village, assume some light disguise, and return by the train. It would be a child's trick for him to drop from the moving train as it entered the town, and disappear unnoticed in the darkness.

Carnes might return by that train, also, but we had agreed that, unless he was fully convinced that Blake meant serious mischief, and that I would need his assistance, he was to continue on his journey, as it seemed important that he should be in New Orleans as soon as possible.

After some consideration, I decided that I would attach myself to Dimber, should he return, as it seemed likely that he would, it being so early. And if he failed to appear, I would lie in wait for the night express, and endeavor to spot Blake, should he come that way.

Having thus decided, I resumed my hat, coat and boots, extinguished my light, 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 between his lips, and he was reading again that brown-covered French novel!

I began to feel like a man in a nightmare. Could that indolent-looking novel reader be meditating a crime, and only waiting for time to bring the hour?

I went out upon the piazza and fanned myself with my hat. I felt discomposed, and almost nervous. At that moment I wished devoutly that I could see Carnes.

By-and-by my absurd self-distrust passed away, and I began to feel once more 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 upon which I stood.

I had the side door of the office in full view. He could not leave the house unseen by me.

Mr. Holtz came out to talk with me. I complained of a headache and declared my intention to remain outside until it should have passed away. We conversed for half an hour, and then, as the hands of the office clock pointed to half-past ten he left me to make his nightly round through kitchen, pantries, and dining-room, locking and barring the 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 the office window, affording a seat for loungers when the office should be overfull, and the chairs all occupied. Upon this I stretched myself, and feigned 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 that had been lowered, turned a page of his novel and read on. The man's coolness was tantalizing. I longed to forget my identity as a detective, and his as a criminal, and to spring through the window, strike the book from his hand, and challenge him to mortal combat, with dirks at close quarters, 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, he took a small lamp from a shelf behind the office desk, lighted it leisurely and went up-stairs.

As he entered the room above, a ray of light, from his window gleamed out across the road. It rested there for, perhaps, five minutes and then disappeared.

Had Dimber Joe closed his novel to retire like an honest man?

Ten more long minutes of quiet and silence, and then the stillness was broken by a long, shrill shriek, sounding half a mile distant. It was the night express nearing Trafton station.

As this sound died upon the air, another greeted my ears; the sound of swift feet running heedlessly, hurriedly; coming directly toward me from the southward.

As I rose from my lounging place and stepped to the end of the piazza the runner came abreast of me, and the light streaming through the office window revealed to me Jim Long, hatless, coatless, almost breathless.

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 did not 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 to him! He is there alone. I must find a doctor."

In another instant he was running townward at full speed, and I was flying at an equal pace through the dark and silent street toward Dr. Bethel's cottage.

CHAPTER XXIV.

JIM LONG SHOWS HIS HAND

As I ran through the silent, dusky street, keeping to the road in preference to risking myself, at that pace, over some most uncertain "sidewalks," for pavements were unknown in Trafton, my thoughts were keeping pace with my heels.

First they dwelt upon the fact that Jim Long, in making his brief, hasty exhortation to me, had forgotten, or chosen to ignore, his nasal twang and rustic dialect, and that his earnestness and agitation had betrayed a more than ordinary interest in Carl Bethel, and a much more than ordinary dismay at the calamity which had befallen him.

Carl Bethel had been shot down at his own door!

How came it that Jim Long was near the scene and ready for the rescue, at eleven o'clock at night? Who had committed the deed? And why?

Some thoughts come to us like inspirations. Suddenly there flashed upon my mind a possible man and a probable motive.