Chapter III Miss Accessory-After-the-Fact
Her initial impulse was to dash out of the boat-house, confront her pursuers, and visit them with a merited rebuke for having disturbed her rest. Not for an instant did it occur to Miss Chalmers that anybody else’s rest had been disturbed by her.
But she remembered that she was not yet announced upon Witherbee’s Island; that she would not, in fact, arrive until morning, so far as the official statement was concerned. So she checked her rush and occupied a wise half-minute in putting on her shoes.
Tiptoeing across squeaking boards to the open doorway, she looked out and turned her head in either direction. Silence had followed the shots. She could see no lights on the island. Everything was as restful and somnolent as a lecture on metaphysics.
She stepped out on the little float, from which she could obtain a better view of the wharf and the beginning of the gravel path. There was neither sign nor sound of the pajama squad, facts that contributed greatly to her satisfaction. Not a glimmer came from the direction of the house.
The shots puzzled her. She was wide-awake now, and she was quite sure she had not dreamed a volley. Pausing for a couple of minutes on the float, she made her way noiselessly to the dock, where she stopped to listen again.
“I know perfectly well I heard shooting,” she remarked. “I’m not given to imagining things. There!”
Four shots there were this time; she had not counted the first group. Instantly she ran to the end of the dock and looked out across the water. As she stared into the darkness there was another shot, preceded some three or four seconds by a yellow flash.
“It’s on another island,” she told herself rapidly. “Can it be possible that there are burglars about? Heavens! Suppose they really did come here!”
She listened for more shots and watched for more flashes. Presently a light showed again, but it did not come from the muzzle of a gun.
She knew it to be the white, steady beam of an electric torch. A moment later another showed. Then they began moving in opposite directions. A little after that she heard the faint bark of a dog. She glanced behind her into the woods of Witherbee’s Island. Nobody else seemed to be paying the least attention to what was going on across the water.
Miss Chalmers’s curiosity was unleashed and stalking from its lair. It was possessed with a consuming desire. She found it dragging her along, with little or no effort on her part to hold it back. Its enthusiasm infected her. She, too—all the rest of her—wanted to know what was going on out there in the river.
Curiosity is a subtly cunning creature. Almost before she knew it, it guided Miss Chalmers to a St. Lawrence skiff, the existence of which she had not noticed before. The skiff was moored to the wharf; it did not take her more than two seconds to lower herself into it, cast off the line, and pick up the two light oars that lay in the bottom.
“I might just as well,” she remarked in extenuation. “It’s out of the question to sleep. Nobody will know anything about it. And—well, it cannot be much more than half a mile.”
She fitted the oars to the swivel-locks, swung the skiff around, took her bearings from one of the electric torches, and fell into a long, steady stroke. The boat moved lightly and easily. She found something exhilarating in the exercise. She could not remember having touched a pair of oars since she rowed with her class-crew at Vassar.
She rowed well. That, of course, was characteristic of Miss Chalmers. Things that she could not do well, she did not do at all. For instance, holding her temper; almost invariably she bungled that, so she had given up trying. Besides, there is no particular reason why a rich, handsome, and imperious lady should hold her temper if she happens not to want to.
For a quarter of a mile she rowed without pausing, then made another observation over her shoulder. She was holding her course admirably, for the lights on the land ahead of her were much nearer. Now she could hear voices, particularly that of a man, who cursed a barking dog and then did something to it to make it yelp.
“It’s another island,” commented Miss Chalmers as she rested a second time, now not more than a hundred yards from the shore. “It’s another burglar-hunt, too. Oh, dear! I suppose it means pajamas.”
It did. Somebody struck a match to light a cigar, and the brief illumination revealed two men who were most palpably dressed for bed. She allowed the boat to drift quietly while she listened. The match burned out and the figures were hidden again, but she could hear their voices distinctly.
“The dogs aren’t worth a hoot,” growled one of the voices.
“Seems like they ain’t quite as noticin’ as they used to be, sir,” admitted the other.
“I gave them the scent, right where we found the footprints in the flower-bed, but they didn’t even seem excited.”
“No, sir.”
“Did you see him at all?”
“Not a sign, sir; nor heard him either.”
“It’s a deuce of a note,” complained the first speaker. “I’ve got watch-dogs and servants and locks on my doors and windows, and yet I can’t keep thieves out of my house.”
“If only Mr. William was here, sir, we might—”
“Confound Mr. William! He’s not here and he won’t be here, so we’ve got to do without him— Listen! What was that?”
“I think that’s James and Eliza hunting along the other side of the island, sir.”
“Eliza! Is she at it, too?”
“She stopped to dress, sir,” explained the voice apologetically and hastily. “She’s awful particular about James, sir. She don’t want nothing to happen to him unless she’s—”
“Never mind that. If she wants to make a fool out of herself, she may, so long as she continues to get the washing done. We’ll go on up the shore until we meet them. But I suppose it won’t be any use.”
“Probably not, sir.”
“Here, Duke! Where’s that blooming dog now? Oh, well; let him go. I suppose he’s eating out of the burglar’s hand.”
The torch carried by one of the speakers began moving along the edge of the island. Miss Chalmers was slightly bored. Being a watcher was not nearly so exciting as playing the quarry. But she decided to follow.
One of the oars rattled in its swivel, and she heard the two searchers halt.
“He’s in a boat!” exclaimed the one in authority.
“I don’t think it was that, sir. It sounded more like—”
“I tell you I heard it perfectly. Don’t stand arguing. Come on! It’s too late; but we’ll finish the round, or at least until we meet Tames. Ouch! Great—”
The remainder of the sentence was blurred, yet high-pitched. A minute later Miss Chalmers heard:
“If it was Patrick who left that lawn-mower standing out I’ll ship him off to-morrow. Why in blazes didn’t you throw a light on it?”
“Sorry, sir. But you’ve got the torch, sir.”
“Shut up! Come on!”
The men began moving again. Miss Chalmers calmly reached down and tore a large piece of expensive goods from the bottom of her skirt. This in turn she tore in halves. Then she carefully swathed the swivels.
When the oars were replaced they made a sound so soft that it could not have been heard a dozen feet. Keeping her distance from the shore-line, she followed the searchers.
The man who seemed to own the island began to talk again:
“He’d have had the silverware and the whole works if it hadn’t been for me. It’s a pity I have to do all the hearing for this house. I don’t see why my servants can’t have insomnia once in a while. What are they paid for? I have it, so I suppose everybody else thinks it’s all right to imitate the Seven Sleepers. You’re quite sure he didn’t take any of the silverware?”
“Almost certain, sir. But I’ll look again when we get back. Nothing on top of the sideboard had even been touched.”
“Well, it’s mighty queer; that’s all I’ve got to say. Except that I’ve a good mind to shoot a couple of dogs to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, sir—please—I wouldn’t, sir. They’ll probably do better next time, sir.”
“Next time! How many times do you expect this is going to happen, I’d like to know? I tell you I’ll shoot ’em!”
“But they’re not mad, sir; and I think—”
“Mad! I know they’re not mad, you idiot! But they’ll be darn-well provoked if I plump a couple of bullets into ’em.”
Miss Chalmers rowed on slowly, her lip curled slightly to indicate her contempt for the conversation. It seemed to her that the evening had furnished nothing save a series of revelations of the incompetence of man. Not a thing that any man had done within her ken that night but she could have performed more efficiently herself, she reflected.
This was the stronger, the dominant sex, was it? With her shoulders she made an eloquent gesture, which was lost upon the night.
Almost at the point of returning to Witherbee’s Island was she, when a yell from the shore caused her to turn her head swiftly.
“There he is now, by George! He’s got a boat. Run! Head him off, before he gets away!”
A dog began to yelp excitedly.
“Sick him, Duke! Sick him! Stop that yawping and grab hold!”
She heard a soft patter of footsteps along the shore, then the staccato note of a gasoline engine.
“Lord! It’s a motor-boat! There he goes! Hang that dog, he missed him!”
A fresh volley of shots came from the island.
“Get the launch! Quick! We’re almost at the boat-house now! We’ll get him yet!”
“Yes, sir, I’m after it.”
The motor-boat that Miss Chalmers heard was exploding gasoline in boisterous fashion. She leaned as far as she dared across the gunwale of the skiff and tried to discern objects in the gloom.
It was difficult to distinguish anything save the dark bulk of the island. But the gasoline motor was whirling furiously. Then there were voices again.
“Got her cast off?”
“N-no, sir; not yet.”
“For the love of Mike, hurry! He’s underway now.”
“There! All right, sir.”
“Get forward and keep a lookout. Tell me which way to steer.”
A second engine burst into action with a defiant roar. Miss Chalmers, resting upon her oars, knew that a chase had begun.
It was rather exciting now. A burglar was being pursued, but she could see neither the burglar nor the pursuers. Two engines were trying to smother each other’s din, with the result that their voices mingled in a discordant bedlam.
Then a dark object passed within fifty feet of her skiff, ran on for a hundred feet more, suddenly slowed down, and ceased firing. In closer to the island, but still beyond her vision, the second boat was clattering truculently, and the voices rose even higher.
“He’s stopped! He’s stopped! Spot him now! It’s our chance!”
“Can’t see him yet, sir.”
“You’ve got to see him! If you miss him you’re fired! Why the blazes do I have to be near-sighted?”
Miss Chalmers edged her skiff closer to the boat that had abruptly paused in flight. She had a suspicion. A moment later she knew. A half-suppressed exclamation reached her ears. The voice was one of recent memory.
For several seconds she was irresolute. Far be it from her to interfere with the long arm of justice or retribution, or whatever it might chance to be. It was no business of hers to trip Nemesis. And yet—
Well, perhaps she would not have acknowledged that it was sporting blood, but it was something singularly resembling it. She cared not a whit for the burglar; he deserved his fate. Contrariwise, she cared nothing whatever about the pursuers. They were entitled to no better than they could achieve. But she did care about something else.
A stalled engine was a perpetual challenge to her.
To some persons the joy of battle lies in overcoming fellow men, to others in conquering the forces of nature, to still others in achieving hard-won triumphs over poverty or riches or other forms of adversity or perversity.
To Rosalind Chalmers, by some queer twist of her brain, it lay in starting a balky engine.
She hesitated no longer. What she did was without reason; but she was past that. Her fighting mood was uppermost. She laid to her oars and put herself alongside the motionless launch with such violence that the skiff rocked threateningly. Another instant and she was aboard.
The crouching figure of Sam, the boat person, arose from the cock-pit. Simultaneously a long arm whipped out with all his weight behind it. Miss Chalmers dodged.
“You fool!” she exclaimed wrathfully. “Here—hold the painter of this skiff.”
The boatman whistled shrilly, then chuckled.
“Well, if it isn’t the master mechanic!” he said.
Not far distant in the darkness, the second launch was plunging furiously onward, the man in the stern anathematizing his lookout.
“Thief!” hissed Miss Chalmers. “Strike a light here.”
She was already bending over the silent engine.
“They’ll see me if I do,” said the boatman. “Best lie quiet for the present.”
“A light!” she commanded.
He obeyed, holding the match low in the boat as he lighted the candle-stub and shielded the flame with his hand.
“You burglar!” she muttered contemptuously. “Where’s your wrench?”
He reached under a seat and handed it to her.
“Hold that light closer—thief! Give me a hammer, too.”
Fresh shouting reached their ears. The light in the cock-pit had been seen by their pursuers.
“Starboard! Starboard, sir!” beseeched an anxious voice.
“I see him. Shut up! You ought to have spotted him before. Stand ready now to make fast to him.”
The boatman turned a glance in the direction of the voices and whistled again.
“I guess I’d better swim for it,” he observed complacently.
“You quitter!” cried Miss Chalmers. “Get that light closer. There—hold it so! Oh, how helpless you are!”
The boatman’s ears told him that pursuit was steadily drawing closer.
Miss Chalmers was doing something swiftly and mysteriously—just what, Sam had no idea. She gripped and twisted something with the wrench, then struck something else two smart blows with the hammer. A second later she seized the rim of the fly-wheel in both hands and gave it a vigorous turn. The engine buzzed noisily.
“There—you house-breaker!” she cried triumphantly.
The boatman took the tiller and blew out the candle.
“Much obliged,” he remarked.
She dropped, panting, to a seat, and began to wonder what irresponsible act she would next commit.
There were cries of dismay from the stern boat when the quarry was off again, but there was no abandonment of the pursuit. In fact it was enlivened by a pair of bullets, which struck the water not far from the rejuvenated launch.
“Better get down on the floor,” advised the boatman.
Miss Chalmers held her place.
Very calmly the boatman reached out, laid a hand upon her shoulder, and twisted her off the seat with a single motion, so that she landed with a bump on the floor.
“How—”
“Dared I?” he inquired. “Oh, I don’t see any sense in running a chance of getting plugged. That fool back there just might hit something.”
She was in a white rage from the touch of his hand and for the moment speechless. But she did not climb back on the seat.
Another shot sounded, but it went wide. The boatman took a knife from his pocket and cut the rope from which the skiff trailed in their wake. Miss Chalmers uttered a cry of despair at his action.
“We can’t tow dead wood and expect to get away—not in this tub,” explained the boatman.
“I—I don’t want to get away!” she exclaimed.
“You don’t?” There was genuine astonishment in his voice. “Then why in Sam Hill did you start that engine?”
She felt there was no fitting reply, so said nothing.
Soon there was a new sound from the rear, or rather a jumble of sounds—a shout of warning, a crash, a splintering of wood.
“There goes one of Mr. Witherbee’s skiffs,” commented the boatman. “They ran it down.”
The lady who sat on the floor made no comment. She had no compunctions concerning the skiff, but she was suddenly alarmed over her own plight.
How would she get back now?
“He’s gaining some,” observed the boatman after a short interval. “I told you I wasn’t a speed-king.”
Miss Chalmers’s mind once more detached itself from her predicament. She rose to her knees and stared out over the stern.
What the boatman said was true. The launch behind was now clearly visible.
“At this rate he’ll get us in about five minutes,” added the boatman after another inspection.
She made a dive for the engine and began tinkering with the spark. They must escape! It would be too humiliating, too utterly beyond explanation to be caught now. She coaxed a few more revolutions out of the engine.
It did not trouble her that she was trying to cheat the law of its prey. She was wholly solicitous for the reputation and the dignity of Rosalind Chalmers.
“We’re doing better than eight, now,” she said defiantly.
“We haven’t got the trunks,” he explained. “But I’ll bet she can’t go nine.”
Couldn’t she? Miss Chalmers purposed to see. She mothered the engine again, touching it here and there deftly and tenderly, adjusting a screw, listening, adjusting again, doing a dozen things that the boatman would not have thought of doing. The engine responded gallantly.
“That’s the first time I ever heard it purr,” he said, in admiration. “You don’t happen to be the inventor of that engine, do you?”
She ignored the question. She was too busy trying for that nine miles.
But still the stern boat gained—not so rapidly as before, yet consistently.
“I can’t do any more,” she said desperately. “You’ve got to do the rest. Do you understand? You’ve got to!”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the boatman. “Will you take a chance in a mean channel?”
“Anything!” she cried.
“That’s funny,” he chuckled, “for a lady who doesn’t want to get away. I was going to take the chance anyhow. Sometimes I make it and sometimes I miss it. I’ve been aground there six times. This is the first time I ever tackled it at night.”
Miss Chalmers looked over her shoulder and saw that they were rapidly approaching land.
“You’re running straight ashore!”
“Maybe—if I don’t hit it.”
By hitting “it” he meant a channel, into which they plunged a moment later. It was very narrow and very dark, and it served to make two islands where the casual observer thought there was only one.
“If we don’t pile ourselves up this is going to be about as clever a thing as I ever did,” remarked the steersman genially. “If we do hit anything you’ll find a life-preserver under the starboard seat. In any event I’ll lay you three to one they don’t follow us.”
She did not take the bet; she was too intent upon watching the rocks that rushed by almost within reach of her arm.
“I said it would be a pretty clever stunt,” observed the boatman a moment later. “Here we are in open water again. No fear; they won’t try it.”
He swung the tiller sharply. The launch swerved and began to follow a new course.
“Is that Mr. Witherbee’s Island?” demanded Miss Chalmers, pointing.
“That? No, indeed. We’ve been going away from Witherbee’s.”
“Take me there at once.”
“You mean to say you really want to go back?”
“Take me there! Do you hear?”
“Why—yes, if you say so. Only, I took you there once and you wouldn’t stay put. What brought you out, anyhow?”
“My own affair,” answered Miss Chalmers shortly.
“Meaning I’m not to ask questions. All right. I’ll take you back. You needn’t worry about that—ma’am.”
“Worry!” she flashed. “Do you think I’m worrying? Do you think I’m afraid—just because you are a burglar?”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” answered the boatman slowly, “I’ve got an idea you’re afraid I’m not a burglar.”
“But you are!”
He shrugged his shoulders and devoted his attention to the course. It was a roundabout way to Witherbee’s Island. The voyage was finished in silence. She did not know whether she was sorry or pleased when she set foot upon the lonely dock for a second time.
“No charge this time,” observed the boatman. “It’s on me.”
She turned upon him fiercely.
“Let me warn you,” she said, “that if you are caught—”
The boat was under way again.
“Well, good night—or rather good morning—Miss Accessory-after-the-fact,” he called back.