Portrait of a Lady
Chapter VIII Who Copped the Buzz-Stuff?
Mr. Witherbee dashed out on the porch, mopping his brow, although the morning was yet cool. The company paused at breakfast.
“Again, by Judas!” he shouted, glaring at his wife.
Mrs. Witherbee half rose from her chair and looked apprehensive.
“Again?” she echoed.
“Yes, again! Burglars!”
“Stephen!”
Mrs. Witherbee sat down abruptly and began fanning herself with a napkin.
“That’s what I said—burglars!”
The master of the house rolled his eyes and breathed heavily.
“Is—is anything stolen?” asked Polly Dawson faintly.
“Stolen? Yes!” cried Mr. Witherbee so fiercely that his smallest guest shrank from him.
The company sat silent, wide-eyed.
“They’ve stolen the burglar-alarm!”
“Stephen!”
“Don’t Stephen me! I tell you they’ve stolen it!”
“Upon my soul!” said Mr. Morton, putting down his tea.
“But who—how—when?”
The questions descended upon Mr. Witherbee in a volley.
“Who? How the blazes do I know? How? Why, just took it, of course. How does anybody steal anything? When? When nobody was looking, madam. That’s my conclusion.”
Mr. Witherbee glared truculently at his spouse.
“But why didn’t the thing go off?” asked Gertrude in a mystified voice.
“It did! It’s gone!” shouted her father.
“All the wires, father? And the gong? Why, I noticed the gong myself as I came down-stairs.”
“I didn’t say the wires and the gong!” stormed Mr. Witherbee. “You don’t have to steal them to steal a burglar-alarm. I mean, they copped the works—the buzz-stuff—the juice!”
“Stephen!” protested his wife, still fanning herself, “that kind of speech doesn’t—”
“What’s speech got to do with this, madam? This is no time for speech; this is a time for talk! Do you understand that? Talk! I say they’ve stolen the works!”
“Dad means the batteries, mother,” explained Tom Witherbee, rising. “Let’s go and see.”
The breakfast party followed him into the house, Mr. Witherbee storming noisily at the rear.
“There! Look for yourselves, if you don’t believe me!” he cried.
Each member of the party, in turn, looked into the coat-closet under the front stairway. A small shelf in a corner had been built to hold six dry cells. It was bare of anything save dust now. Two wire connections projected uselessly from the wall.
Mr. Witherbee’s guests looked at each other in silence.
“Now, who the deuce would do a thing like that?” said Tom Witherbee tentatively, when the pause had become prolonged.
“Who, indeed?” murmured Rosalind.
She was staring at the empty shelf as if it had a peculiar fascination for her.
“What I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Witherbee, “is why a burglar would want to steal the batteries out of a burglar-alarm.”
“Why, madam?” exploded her husband, whirling upon her. “Why? Anybody knows why! Why does a burglar poison a watch-dog? To keep it from barking. Why does a burglar chloroform a family? To keep ’em from waking up! Why does he steal the works out of an alarm? To keep the bell from ringing, madam. Lord Harry, it’s plain enough!”
“That does sound rather reasonable,” assented Rosalind, still fascinated by the empty shelf.
“They’re getting ready for a raid, I tell you—a raid on the house!” declaimed Mr. Witherbee furiously. “They’re just paving the way. And when they come—by George—there’ll be nothing to wake us up!”
Mrs. Witherbee shivered.
“But, Stephen,” she said, wrinkling her forehead in puzzlement, “if they could get into the house to steal the batteries so as to make ready for a raid, why didn’t they raid the house, instead of stealing the batteries?”
“That’s a problem, too,” commented Rosalind. “How do you account for it, Mr. Witherbee?”
“Account for it?” His flashing glance went from his wife to Rosalind, then back again. “Why should I account for it? I’m not a burglar. It takes a thief to know why! The point is, it’s been done—that’s all.”
“It’s cursedly odd,” said Mr. Morton, as he stroked his yellow mustache.
Mr. Witherbee glared at his guest, opened his mouth to say something, then made a helpless gesture and remained silent.
“You just noticed this, dad?” asked Tom.
“When I went to get a hat.”
“Did you ask any of the servants about it?”
“No! What would a servant want with an electric battery? If you’re going to ask me if I suspect my servants, I’ll tell you no—right now, sir.”
“Father’s right, Tom,” said his mother. “The servants are perfectly trustworthy.”
“Of course they’re trustworthy!” snapped Mr. Witherbee. “They’re also deaf, dumb, and blind—non compos mentis and plain dotty. But they’re honest. Anybody might walk in here and steal the plaster off the walls without getting caught. Yes, and for all your servants might know, steal you out of bed, madam!”
“Mercy, Stephen!” exclaimed his wife faintly. “Don’t suggest such a thing!”
“We can get more batteries, father,” said Gertrude soothingly.
“Batteries! Of course we can get batteries. And what’s to prevent anybody from stealing the new ones?
“I tell you, the whole neighborhood’s overrun with thieves. First it’s us, rung out of our sleep in the middle of the night; then it’s Davidson; then it’s us again. Now it’s his turn. After that they’ll probably steal the island.”
Rosalind, abandoning her study of the empty shelf, went back to the deserted breakfast-table and resumed her grapefruit.
“I had no idea,” she murmured softly, “that they worked the burglar-alarm. I thought they worked the door-bell. But—I’m glad!”
Rosalind was the only person who did not finish breakfast in desultory fashion. She ate deliberately and contentedly. There were no disturbing symptoms in her conscience. She was revenged—revenged for the shock of the midnight alarm, for the flight in the darkness, for the knee that bumped itself on the chair, for the night in the boat-house, for a gown that would never be worn again; yes, for everything save the bracelet. That was adorning the arm of Gertrude this morning.
But she would be revenged for that, too, she told herself. And when Rosalind Chalmers promised herself anything, she was a patient and persistent performer.
“What in the world are you laughing at, Rosalind?” asked Mrs. Witherbee.
“Was I laughing? It was rather rude of me. But a burglar-alarm seems such a funny thing to steal. Think of stealing a noise!”
“To tell you the truth, my dear,” said Mrs. Witherbee, after making sure that her husband was not within hearing, “I’m glad the old batteries are gone. They frightened me nearly to death night before last. Of course, I don’t like to have thieves about; but if they must come, I’d much prefer they’d let me sleep.”
Tom and his sister, Polly Dawson and Mr. Morton were playing tennis; Fortescue Jones and the Perkins young man were smoking cigarettes, and the two Winter girls were knitting for the Belgians, when Mr. Witherbee hove in sight, leading a reluctant dog. There was a general suspension of industry.
“Where’d you get that, dad?” asked Tom.
“Been over to Davidson’s in the launch,” said Mr. Witherbee. “Here! Buck up—Rover, Prince, Fido—what the deuce did he say your name was, anyhow? Hold your head up; get that tail out. Some dog—eh?”
“What’s he for?”
“Burglars.”
Rosalind checked a smile and stroked the ears of the cringing animal.
“Is he well recommended?” she asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that,” answered Mr. Witherbee, as he regarded the beast frowningly. “Davidson says he isn’t worth a hoot. But he thought maybe if he was kept on a strange place where he doesn’t feel at home, he might get fierce again. So I don’t want any of you to make friends with him. I’m going to put him on short rations until he gets a mean opinion of everybody.”
“He doesn’t seem as if he ever had been fierce,” observed Rosalind, as the dog thrust his muzzle into her palm.
“He’s got a pedigree,” declared Mr. Witherbee as he dragged the animal away from the friendly hand. “His father bit a man once, so Davidson says. And one of his brothers got killed in a fight. He’s got the stuff in him, if there’s any way to bring it out.”
“You mean to say, Stephen,” remarked Mrs. Witherbee severely, “that you propose to train that animal to bite us?”
“Not us, madam; certainly not! I mean to train him to bite burglars.”
“Of course,” said Tom Witherbee, as he walked back to the tennis-court, “he’ll need a practise bite now and then. Wait and see if dad doesn’t call for volunteers.”
“All right, young man!” snorted his father. “The amount of interest you show in protecting your mother, your sister, and myself is no credit to you. But let me tell you, sir, that other persons hereabouts are realizing the seriousness of this situation. We are organizing. Davidson has called a meeting at his island to-night. There will probably be a dozen owners there. We’re going to do something about this thing, you can gamble on that. We’ll probably establish a patrol. I expect some of the Canadian owners will come in on it, too.”
“The international navy at last!”
“Shut up, Tom! Here, you beast—come on!”
Mr. Witherbee disappeared around the corner of the house, dragging the dog behind him.
Rosalind, having succeeded in discouraging the attempts of Fortescue Jones to explain just why the fox trot represented more foot-tons of energy per mile than the one-step, managed to escape alone for a stroll about the island.
She was not particularly interested either in her hosts or their guests. But she endured that patiently. What really annoyed her was the persistence with which her mind reverted to Sam, the boatman.
The uproar over the batteries had merely served to rekindle the matter. She was by no means at peace when she thought of the uncouth navigator and his slatternly boat. He not only puzzled, but vaguely disturbed her.
Of course, for his own safety, she felt well assured he would attempt to cause her no annoyance; and yet the foundation for possible embarrassments and unwelcome explanations was there. She was not a law-breaker, to be sure; but the boatman emphatically was. And in some measure it seemed that she had been an accomplice.
The rack and thumb-screw could not have extorted confession from Rosalind concerning some of the things that had happened. But the difficulty lay in the fact that the boatman, if he chose, could render her own confession superfluous. And what might he not do, if caught, to save his own neck?
She was particularly annoyed when she remembered the interview that had been of her own seeking. The result, so far as she was concerned, had been rather inglorious. He had even laughed at her! He had refused the bribe she offered; he would put no price on his silence.
And he had called her pal! Her cheeks went hot when she remembered that.
Down at the Witherbee wharf, Rosalind sat and idly watched a small power-boat that stood a mile off the island, evidently irresolute as to destination. It was not until it finally laid an unmistakable course for the Witherbee place that her interest was awakened.
When the boat reached the landing, one of the two men who occupied it lifted his cap and inquired if it was Mr. Witherbee’s Island. Being assured that it was, the men fastened their craft, stepped out, and went up the path toward the house, the direction of which Rosalind had indicated with a gesture.
Half an hour or so later they returned, Mr. Witherbee with them. All three were talking volubly. One of the strangers held a paper in his hand.
Rosalind, whose eyes were keen, deciphered two words that were written in a bold hand on one side of the sheet. Her pulse quickened, but that was the only manifestation of the excitement which the paper produced in her.
After a moment of talk on the wharf, the two men embarked, thanked Mr. Witherbee, and went on their way.
“That’s a funny go,” said her host, turning to her.
Rosalind raised her eyebrows in polite curiosity.
“American customs agents,” explained Mr. Witherbee. “Looking for diamond-smugglers. It seems there’s been a good deal of it going on. Last night somebody left an anonymous letter in their boat. That’s what brought them down here.”
“Here?”
“They didn’t show me the whole thing, but it contained some sort of a hint about Mr. Morton.”
“Mr. Morton?”
“Uh-huh! Ridiculous, of course; I told them so. I think I satisfied ’em on that score. They said, of course, they were compelled to look up every possible clue.
“They didn’t think of accusing Morton of anything. Just wanted to know something about him; that was all. I introduced him. They didn’t seem to take much stock in whatever the letter said.”
“Of course not,” agreed Rosalind.
“But here’s the queerest part. On the back of the paper was the name of Mr. Davidson. They went over to his island before they came here and showed it to him. And Davidson said that it was his own handwriting!”
“How curious! Of course he didn’t know anything about the note?”
“Not a thing in the world. The note was written in lead-pencil in an entirely different hand. But there was his name on the back of it. It looks like a half-sheet of paper torn off from the other part. Davidson acknowledges the signature, and that’s every blessed thing he knows about it. Now, wouldn’t that get you?”
“It would,” admitted Rosalind, forgetting her abhorrence of slang.
“I tell you I’m glad I got the dog,” declared Mr. Witherbee as he went off muttering.
Rosalind was content to be alone again for a little. She knew where she had seen the piece of paper before; she remembered very distinctly the boatman’s copy of Hamersly’s “Social Register.”
But smuggling! That was something brand-new to consider.
What did he know about smuggling unless he smuggled himself? In Rosalind’s mind he began to appear as something more than a common thief. A little seemed to have been added to his stature.
What perplexed her most of all, however, was the reference to Morton, the Englishman.
Why Morton? Why had the boatman furnished Morton’s name to a pair of customs officers? Perhaps a crude ruse to divert suspicion from himself, thought Rosalind; yet that theory did not satisfy her.
She was not quite sure that the boatman was crude in his methods, no matter how hopelessly ignorant he might be concerning gasoline engines. Now she remembered Morton’s survey of the river, watching for Sam’s boat; also, she recollected the questioning of Sam as to the Witherbees’ guest.
What did these two know about each other?
Rosalind sensed a suddenly awakened interest in the Englishman, who had occupied a very minor place in her thoughts up to the present. She resolved to satisfy her curiosity, so, rising from her seat on the wharf, she went briskly up to the house.
Mrs. Witherbee, also a Belgian knitter, was in a corner of the porch. Rosalind dropped into a seat beside her. For a few minutes she watched the tennis-players, then remarked indifferently:
“Mr. Morton plays a rather strong game, don’t you think?”
“Well, I don’t understand tennis,” said Mrs. Witherbee; “but they tell me he does. He’s a rather interesting man.”
“Is he?”
“Don’t you find him so, my dear?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” answered Rosalind. “You’ve known him for some time?”
“No, we haven’t,” said Mrs. Witherbee. “He’s been here most of the summer, but he’s only been with us a few weeks. He was Mr. Davidson’s guest at first. He’s an old friend of Mr. Davidson, it seems. That’s how we came to meet him.
“Stephen took a fancy to him and invited him over here. I imagine he was glad of the chance, because things were rather slow over at Davidson’s without any young people, particularly after Billy Kellogg went away.”
“Billy Kellogg?”
“Mr. Davidson’s nephew. A nice boy, but an idler. You probably heard his uncle mention the fact that he was working in New York. Mr. Davidson forced him to. The straw that broke the camel’s back, it seems, was when Billy lost a big sum of money playing bridge with Mr. Morton. That disgusted his uncle.”
“But didn’t Mr. Davidson feel any resentment against Mr. Morton for having won his nephew’s money?” asked Rosalind.
“Apparently not,” said Mrs. Witherbee, knitting busily. “You see, men are funny about those things. Mr. Davidson said if it hadn’t been Morton it would have been somebody else, and that it was all a fair gamble. But he was furious at his nephew for losing.
“And now he gets reports from the banking-firm every day, telling him how finely the boy is getting on. And that’s how, in a roundabout sort of way, we got Mr. Morton. Rather distinguished-looking, isn’t he, dear?”
Rosalind shrugged her shoulders and watched the tennis-player.
“Of course he’s dreadfully English,” added Mrs. Witherbee; “but he can’t help that. And his name—it’s Evelyn! Stephen thinks it’s the funniest thing he ever heard—H. Evelyn Morton.
“But he likes him, just the same. Everybody does. You will, my dear. Why, Rosalind, you can’t tell but he just might be the one who—”
“I think I’ll go up-stairs and take a nap,” said Rosalind hastily. “I have a slight headache.”