At One-Thirty by Isabel Ostrander (adult books to read .txt) 📕

a friend of the family. I understand he didn’t lunch here, but went out again almost immediately after arriving, and walked over the fields to that patch of woods.” He waved his haifd vaguely toward the left.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see him when he returned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was accompanied by two men, wasn’t he —one short and one tall?”

“Yes; but only as far as the edge of the field, sir. Then he left them, and came back here to the inn; had a quick bite, and went oflF in his car.”

“It’s too bad that you didn’t get a close-enough view of those two men to give me a description of them.”

“But I did, sir. You see, they only went back to the woods. They couldn’t have gone far, and they must have been watching; for, directly Mr. Appleton’s car was out of sight, they came around by way of the lane—I could swear it was the same two, sir—and sat down just two tables away from where you are sitting now, and ordered a drink. One was short and quite stout—that was the old one. He might have been about forty-five, or fifty; but you can’t tell exactly, because he was pale and sallow, and looked as if he’d had a long illness, or-or-”

“Go on, my man, there is five dollars more in it for you, if you’ll tell me everything. What were you going to say then?”

“Well, of course I don’t know who he was, sir, and I haven’t any right to speak of it, but, well, I took on a waiter here, once, who had that same queer pallor, and his hair was cropped close. After he’d been here two days, he disappeared with all the hotel silverware he could carry off, and I found out he was an old offender, just out from a long term in prison.

“That stout little man, here Monday afternoon. had the same gray look on his face, although he was mostly bald, and what little hair he had was shaved quite close. It came over me all of a sudden that he might be a jail-bird, too; but I could have kicked myself for a fool, afterward, for he—he tipped handsomely, and seemed quite a gentleman. I’ve heard, sir, that when a prisoner’s term is nearly up, they let his hair grow for a while beforehand; but my convict waiter had been pardoned on short notice—and maybe if this gentleman had been in prison, too, he might have gotten out unexpected, the same way.”

“And the younger man—what about him?”

“Oh, he was in his twenties, I should say. A dark young man, and tanned as if he’d been out in the open air a lot. They looked alike, for all their difference in size and build; and they must have been father and son, for I heard him call the old man’ Dad.’”

“Did you ever see them before?”

“No, sir.” The man hesitated again. “I can’t say positive that I have, but the older gentleman’s face seemed sort of familiar/ Maybe I’d seen him a long while ago, somewhere, and he’s changed a lot. I have a good memory for faces—a head waiter’s got to have—and I’ve been working around New York these thirty years.”

“Did they stay long?”

“A little short of an hour, sir.”

“What did they order?”

“Nothing to eat; just drinks—a champagne cup for the older gentleman, and plain ginger ale for the younger.”

“That is all. You may get my luncheon now. Fm in a hurry to be off…. But wait a minute. How did you hurt your hand?”

“Cut it badly, sir, carving the other night, when I was in a hurry, and we had a big rush. But how did you—”

“When you placed the silver before me, you used your left hand, and that clumsily, as if you were unaccustomed to it.”

There was the noise and bustle about them of arriving lunch parries, and the head waiter seemed anxious to be about his duties; so Gaunt slipped into the ready hand the other promised bill, and said in a low tone:

“Send the waiter to me for my luncheon order now, and be sure it is the same one who waited on those two gentlemen, on Monday afternoon.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir;” and the head waiter departed.

After a few moments, there was a deferential cough beside Gaunt, and a voice said:

“I am the waiter you wanted, sir. Shall I read the menu to you?”

Evidently, the head waiter had told him of his patron’s affliction.

“Yes; take my order, and then come back.”

Gaunt indicated a simple luncheon; then, when the waiter returned, said:

“What’s your name?”

“Henry, sir.”

“Well, Henry, there is a good tip in it for you, if you’ll answer my questions. You waited on two gentlemen, Monday afternoon, about—well, we’ll say about four o’clock, or a little after. You served them champagne cup and ginger ale. Do you remember them?”

“Yes, sir; quite well, sir.”

“Did you overhear anything they said to each other?”

“Only a little, sir. They seemed very excited and pleased about something—quite as if they were celebrating. But they were mostly quiet when I came around the table, and acted cautious; for, after the older gentleman had had his first pint x>f wine, and I was bringing them the second, he was talking quite loud, and the younger hushed him up. All I heard was the stout little man say; ‘Well, I guess we’ve got him where we want him, Rupert. He will come across all right. Sjnith has flown, damn him!—I beg you pardon, sir— ‘Smith has flown; but Appleton was the main one I meant to get after, any way.’ That is all, sir. They didn’t stay long after that. The little, stout man paid the bill, and gave me a very good tip, and then they went away, walking off around by the lane.”

“Would you know them again, if you saw them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’d never been in here before, either of them?”

“Not that I know of, sir. I don’t think I waited on them, if they were. But sometimes we have an awful rush, especially in the spring and summer.”

“You’ve been here long?”

“Going on three years, sir.”

“That is all, Henry. You may get my luncheon now.”

After eating a hasty meal, and bestowing upon the waiter his promised tip. Gaunt entered his car, and told Saunders to drive down th^ lane, past the clump of woodland, until he came to a small farmhouse.

In a very few minutes they stopped, and Saunders led the detective through the gate, and up a trim little path to the door, upon which he rapped smartly.

Shuffling steps were heard within; then the door creaked, and a woman’s aged, quavering voice asked their business.

“You are Mrs. Crabtree?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman’s accent held a strong hint of the South of England.

“Where is your husband? I want to speak to him.”

“In the garden, bringing in the pumpkins. If ‘e’ll sit ‘e doon ‘ere, sir, I will go fetch ‘im for ‘e.”

Gaunt seated himself in the chair she offered, and Saunders started back to his machine; but the detective bade him sit on the steps of the Kttle porch, within a few feet of the opened door.

Presently the shuffling feet were heard returning upon the stony little path, accompanied by a stronger, firmer tread, and a man’s voice,, old, but more vigorous than the woman’s had been, sounded upon his ears.

“I am Albert Crabtree, sir. ‘E wished for to see me?”

“Yes, Crabtree; I want your record. Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me; I am not a police officer, and I will pay you well. How long have you lived here?”

The old man hesitated, and, in spite of Gaunt’s reassurance, his voice took on a note of fear.

“My record’s a clean one, sir. I’m afeered to have no man know it.”

“I’m sure of that, Crabtree. You’re English, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir; we’re in this country sixteen years, or more, Lisbeth an’ me.”

“How long have you lived in this house?”

“Goin’ on four years, sir.”

Going on four years! The same length of time the couple named Smith had lived in the old Jersey farmhouse!

“Before that you were where?”

“In New York, sir.”

“What did you do? Had you a trade?”

“No, sir.”

The old man seemed to hesitate, and the detective asked again:

“What did you do?”

“I was a—a coachman, sir.”

“Any your wife?”

There was a touch of pride in the old man’s voice as he answered:

“Lizbeth ben’t ever in service since we was married.”

“For whom were you coachman, Crabtree?”

“When we fust coom over? For the Clintons, on Washington Square.”

“And then for whom?”

There was no answer, and the old man’s feet shuffled uneasily on the porch.

After a long minute, the old woman’s quavering voice cried out:

“Why don’t ‘e answer, Albert, my man? We’ve nowt to be ashamed of, and ‘e was a kind master always.

“Twas Mr.—Mr. Hitchcock, sir.”

Something in the man’s voice, no less than his hesitation, made the detective ask quickly:

“What Mr. Hitchcock?”

“Mr. Rupert Hitchcock, sir.”

An illuminating ray of thought flashed over Gaunt’s mind.

“Not Rupert Hitchcock, of Smith, Hitchcock &. Gregory?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; and as Lisbeth says. There is nought to be ashamed of in that! For, whatever they said he did, he was a kind gentleman.”

“Well, Crabtree, I would like to speak to him. Will you tell him so, please?”

The old wife gave a little, sharp cry, and the man replied uneasily:

“Tell ‘im, sir! ‘Ow can I tell ‘im, sir? I don’t know where ‘e is.”

“Oh, yes, you do. He is here in your house, with his son Rupert, Junior.”

“Indeed, an’ ‘e isn’t, sirl Mr. Hitchcock ben’t ere.

“He was here Monday afternoon. A gentleman called on him, and the three walked away together, and Mr. Hitchcock and his son didn’t return until after five.”

After a pause, the old woman said tremblingly:

“‘E better tell the gentleman, Albert. ‘E knows, anyway.”

“Well, sir, it can’t do Mr. Hitchcock any harm. ‘E an’ Master Rupert came late Sunday night, an’ stayed wi’ us till Monday night, and the gentleman came in the afternoon, just as ‘e said.”

“Did you expect them Sunday?”

“No, they just dropped from the clouds, like, and asked if we would put them up for a day. They’d been good to Lisbeth an’ me, before—before Mr. Hitchcock’s trouble, sir; an’ we was only too glad to do anything we could.”

“At what time did they leave on Monday night?”

“As soon as it was dark, sir. A fine, big motor car came for them, and took them away.”

“Did Mr. Hitchcock say anything about seeing you again?”

“Only that—‘e’d see us sometime, sir, and ‘e gave me twenty dollars, and shook hands wi’ us both.

The detective rose.

“You can crank up now, Saunders,” he said, “and we’ll be off.”

Turning to the old man, he held out a bill of the same denomination as those he had tendered the head waiter at the inn.

Albert Crabtree took it, but in rather a doubtful manner, and said hesitatingly:

“I wouldn’t want to take it, sir, if I—I’d been ‘urting Mr. Hitchcock by what I have told ‘e.”

“You haven’t, Crabtree. You see, I knew it all the time. Nothing can harm Mr. Hitchcock, now; he is as free as any of us.’”

The old woman, divining Gaunt’s affliction, guided him down the path. Half-way to the car, she allowed a slight groan to escape her, and he turned sympathetically to her.

“Has it been very bad, this winter?”

She looked at him, startled.

“What, sir? My rheumatism you mean?