Books: Quill\'s Window

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The trail wound in and out among these boulders, dividing at a
point several hundred feet south of the steep ascent to the top of
the great black mound. The main-travelled path turned in from the
river at this point, to skirt the hill at its rear. A more tortuous
way, traversed presumably by the fishers and hunters of the tribes,
or perhaps by war parties in swift pursuit or retreat, held directly
to the bank of the stream and passed along the front of the cliff.

Courtney took the latter branch. Presently he was picking his way
carefully along the base of the cliff, scrambling over and between
the rocks that formed a narrow ledge between the river and the
sheer face of Quill's Window. He was now some fifty or sixty feet
above the cold, grey water. Below him grew a line of stunted,
ragged underbrush, springing from the earth-filled fissures among
the boulders. Across the river stretched far away the farms and
fields of the far-famed grain-belt.

He sat down upon a rock and gazed out over these fertile lands,
now crowded with shocks of corn or rusty with the dead glories
of summer. There were great square fields of stubble, fenced-in
patches of pasture-land, small oases of woodland, houses and barns
and silos as far as the eye could reach,--and always the huge red
barns dwarfed the houses in which the farmers dwelt. Cattle and
sheep and horses, wagons and men, all made small and insignificant
in the sweep of this great and solemn panorama.

The home of Amos Vick was visible, standing half-a-mile back from
the river. He looked hard and long at the house in which he had
spent the first three weeks of his stay in the country. So young
Cale had gone off to join the Navy, eh? Good! And Rosabel,--what
of her? What was she doing over at the old Windom house that day?
Could it have been she who was watching him? Looking badly, too,
they said. Such a strong, pretty, wind-tanned young thing she was!
How long ago was it? Not two months....He lit a cigarette and
resumed his way, the shadow of a fond smile lingering in his eyes.

Rounding the curve, he came to that side of the stone hill which
faced up the river. He had passed many small, shallow niches along
the base of the eminence, miniature caves from which oozed what
might well have been described as sweat. There were, besides, deep
upright slashes in the side of the rock, higher than his head,
suggesting to the imagination the vain effort of some unhappy giant
to burst through the walls of his rocky prison,--some monster of
a man who now lay dead in the heart of the hill. The turn took him
farther away from the river.

He was looking now into the tops of several tall sycamores that
rose from the low ground at the foot of the hill. Extending far to
the north along the river was a fringe of these much be-sung trees.
The space between the straight face of the cliff and the edge of
the ledge on which he stood was not more than seven or eight feet.
It was possible, he perceived, for one to continue along and down
this natural path to the bottom of the hill, coming out among the
trees in the low ground. The descent, however, was a great deal
more precipitous than the ascent from the other direction.

Now that he was immediately below the cave known as Quill's
Window, he was surprised to find that the cliff was not absolutely
perpendicular. There was quite a pronounced slant; the top of the
wall was, at a guess, ten feet farther back than the foot. His
gaze first sought the strange opening three-fourths of the way to
the top,--a matter of eighty or ninety feet above the spot on which
he stood. There it was,--a deep, black gash in the solid rock,
rendered narrow by fore-shortening and a slightly protruding brow.
He could think of nothing more analogous than an open mouth with
a thick upper lip and the nether lip drawn in.

Then he saw what surprised him even more,--something that none of
the chroniclers had mentioned: a series of hand-cut niches up the
face of the cliff, leading directly to the mouth of the cave. He had
been given to understand that there was no other means of reaching
Quill's Window save from the top of the rock. These niches or
"hand-holds" were about two feet apart. He examined the lower ones.
They were deeply chiselled, affording a substantial foothold as
well as a grip for a strong, resolute climber. Most of them were
packed with dirty, wind blown leaves from the trees nearby,--so
tightly packed by the furious rains that beat against the rock
that he had difficulty in removing the substance. Higher up they
appeared to be quite clean and free from obstruction.

He scraped the leaves out of five or six of the slits, one after
the other, as he climbed a short distance up the wall. Further
progress was checked, not so much by lack of desire to go to the
top, but by an involuntary glance over his shoulder. He was not
more than ten feet above the trail, but the trail was shockingly
narrow and uneven. So down he came, quite thrilled by his discovery,
to lean against the rock and laugh scornfully over the silly tales
about Quill's Window and its eerie impregnability. Anybody could
climb up there! All that one needed was a stout heart and a good
pair of arms. Closer inspection convinced him that these niches were
of comparatively recent origin,--certainly they were not of Quill's
time. David Windom? Had that adventurous lad hewn this ladder to
the cave long before the beautiful Alix the First came to complete
the romance of his dreams?

No matter who cut them, they were still there to prove that Quill's
Window was accessible. According to tradition, no one had put foot
inside the cave since David Windom, in his youth, had ventured to
explore its grisly interior. Courtney promised himself that one
day he would enter that unhallowed hole in the wall!

Retracing his steps over the trail, he soon found himself in the
village. He was more cheerful now. He had talked himself into a
better frame of mind....She was shy. She had reached the turning
point,--the inevitable point where women tremble with a strange
mixture of alarm and rapture, and are as timid as the questioning
deer. What a fool he was not to have thought of that!

There was a small package in his lockbox at the postoffice--and
two or three letters. The package was from New York, addressed in
his mother's hand.

He stopped at the general delivery window for a chat with Mrs.
Pollock.

"I had forgotten all about my birthday," he said, "but here's
mother reminding me of it as usual. She never forgets,--and, hang
it all, she won't let ME forget." He fingered the unopened package
lovingly.

"Goodness me, Mr. Thane,--is this your birthday?" she cried excitedly.
"We must have a celebration. We can't allow--"

"Alas, it is too late. Your super-efficient postal service has
brought this to me just forty-eight hours behind time. Day before
yesterday was the day, now that I think of it."

Mrs. Pollock mentally resolved to indite a short poem to him,
notwithstanding. She could feel it coming, even as she stood there
talking to him. The first line was already written, so to speak.
It went:

"The flight of Time has brought once more--"

He continued, oblivious to the workings of the Muse: "Twenty-nine!
By Jove, I begin to feel that I'm getting on in life." He ripped
open one of the envelopes.

Maude Baggs Pollock looked intently at the ceiling of the outer
office, and thought of line number two:

"The busy Reaper to his door,"

She hastily snatched a pencil from her hair and began jotting
down these precious lines. Fumbling for a bit of paper her fingers
encountered an envelope addressed to Alaska Spigg. The Muse worked
swiftly. Before she had dashed off the first two lines, the second
pair were crowding down upon them, to wit:

"But while he whets his fatal scythe, Gaze ye upon his victim
lithe."

At this juncture George Rice's son came in for a half dozen postal
cards, and while she was making change for a dime the Muse forsook
her. Bent on preserving the lines already shaped, she stuffed
Alaska's letter into the pocket of her apron, intending to copy
them at the first leisure moment. Unfortunately for Alaska, there
was a rush of business at the window, including an acrimonious
dispute with Mrs. Ryan over the non-arrival of a letter she was
expecting from her son, and a lengthy conversation with Miss Flora
Grady who dropped in to say that her chilblains always began to
bother her in October. In the meantime, Courtney departed.

Two days later, Alaska Spigg received her letter, considerably
crumpled and smelling of licorice root,--(a favourite remedy of Mrs.
Pollock's)--but rendered precious by the presence of a mysterious
"quatrain" done in violet hues by some poetic wielder of an indelible
pencil. Guilt denied Maude Baggs Pollock the right to claim
authorship of these imperishable lines, and to this day they remain
unidentified in the archives of the Windomville Public Library,
displayed upon request by Alaska Spigg, their proud and unselfish
donor.

Courtney read two of his letters. The third he consigned, unopened,
to the fireplace at Dowd's Tavern. The little package, minus the
wrapping paper, was locked away in his trunk.

Charlie Webster, emerging from his office at the dinner hour,--twelve
noon,--espied Miss Angie Miller hurrying toward the Tavern. He hailed
her,--not ceremoniously or even gallantly,--but in the manner of
Windomville.

"Hey!" he called, and Angie promptly responded, not with the dignity
for which she was famous but with an entirely human spontaneity:

"Hey yourself!"

She waited till he caught up with her.

"Have you had an answer to that letter, Angie?" he inquired, glancing
at a small bunch of letters she held in her hand.

"No, I haven't." she replied, somewhat guardedly. "I can't understand
why he hasn't answered, Charlie,--unless he's away or something."

"Must be that," said he, frowning slightly. "You wrote nearly two
weeks ago, didn't you?"

"Two weeks ago yesterday."

"Sure you had the right address?"

"Absolutely. Thirty-three Cedar Street. He's had an office there for
ever so long. I ought to know where my uncle's office is, oughtn't
I?"

"I thought maybe you might have got the wrong tree," explained
Charlie.

"It's Cedar," said Miss Angie flatly.

"Cedar and pine are a good deal alike, except in--" began Charlie,
doubtfully,

"Goodness!" cried Miss Angie, stopping short. "It IS Pine! How
perfectly stupid of me! How utterly reprehensible!"

Charlie stared at her a moment in sheer disdain.

"Well, by gosh, if that ain't like a woman," he exclaimed disgustedly.
"I'd hate to send you for a half dozen oranges if there were any
lemons in the market."

"He is such a well-known lawyer," began Angie humbly, "that you
would think the mail carrier would--"

"What did you say his name was?"

"Joseph Smith. He is my mother's brother."

"East or West?"

"East or west what?"

"Pine Street. Same as North Fourth Street and South Fourth Street
up in the city. It runs both ways, Angie,--you poor simp."

"I shall write to him again this evening," said Angie stiffly. "And
I'll thank you, Charlie Webster, to remember that I am a lady and
not a--"

"I apologize, Angie," cried Charlie.

"You'd better!"

They walked along in silence for a few rods. Then Charlie spoke.

"You say your uncle was mixed up in a lawsuit of some kind concerning
the Thane family?"

"I remember it distinctly. It was five or six years ago, before my
mother died. He wrote her a letter about it when he found out that
the Thanes originally came from this neighbourhood. I don't remember
what it was all about, but I think it was some kind of a rumpus
over money."

"Well, you write tonight, Angie," ordered Mr. Webster; "and remember
it ain't Cedar, or Oak, or Mahogany. It's Pine,--the stuff you make
boxes of."

Much to Courtney's dismay, Alix remained in town over night. He went
up to the house that evening, only to receive this disconcerting
bit of information. Halfway home, he stopped short in the road,
confronted by a most astonishing doubt. Had she really stayed in
town? Could it be possible that she was at home and did not care to
see him? Was it an excuse? He compressed his lips. With lightning
rapidity certain bits of circumstantial evidence raced through his
mind. In the first place, there was Sergeant, the police dog. He
wished he could remember whether he had seen the animal in the car
with her that morning. It was her custom to take the dog with her
when she went up for the day. One thing was certain: Sergeant was
now at home. Did that mean she had returned from the city?

And then there was another extraordinary thing,--something to which
he had not given a thought till now. The dog was on the terrace
when he strode up the walk. Not only was he there, but he interposed
his lean, bristling body between him and the porch-steps, growling
ominously and showing his teeth. He did not bark. He merely stood
there, daring him to approach. Courtney remembered saying to himself:

"There's one thing sure, you and I can't live in the same house,
you filthy brute. You'd better learn how to say your prayers, my
amiable friend."

It was not so much the presence of the dog or his inimical attitude
that troubled him now as the fact that Mrs. Strong opened the front
door without having been summoned by the bell. What did that signify?
But one thing: either she or some one else had been waiting and
watching for his arrival,--waiting behind the window curtains of
a darkened room!

"Well,--I'm damned!" he swore to himself, as the blood rushed
furiously to his head. For an instant he saw red. "Good Lord, what
have I done to deserve such a slap in the face as this? What can
be--But, what the devil's the matter with me? Of course, she's in
town! I must be going batty. Certainly she's in town. She--but, even
so, why should she have gone off like this without saying a word
to me about it? She didn't mention it last night. Not a word. And
she must have known then she was planning to spend the night,--why,
by gad, I wonder if she calls that being fair with me? Letting me
trail up here tonight, expecting--Any way you want to look at it,
it's rotten,--just plain rotten!"

CHAPTER XIV

SUSPICION

Early the next morning she called him up from the city. She
explained everything. The little daughter of her best friend had
fallen downstairs, injuring herself badly,--perhaps fatally. She
felt it her duty to remain with the distracted mother,--she hoped
he would understand. And she was in such a hurry to reach the city
after the child's father had called her on the telephone that she
really did not have the time to stop and explain. He would understand
that, too, wouldn't he? And she thought perhaps she would stay over
another night. She couldn't leave Marjorie,--at least, not until
something definite was known.

He was vastly relieved. All his worry for nothing! He wished now
that he had remained in his room instead of going out a second time
last night to tramp about the dark, lonely village, driven forth
by an ugly fit of temper.

"But Mrs. Strong didn't say anything about the accident," he said
over the wire. "She simply said you were in town for the night."

"I can't understand that," replied Alix. "She knew why I came up to
town, and I telephoned her during the afternoon that I would stay
overnight.

"She might have told me," he complained. "It would have relieved
my mind enormously. I--I was horribly unhappy. Never closed my
eyes. I thought you,--that is, I wondered if I had done anything to
offend you. My Lord, you'll never know how happy I am this minute.
My heart is singing--And to think it was like a lump of lead all
last night. Do try to come out this evening."

She did not answer at once, but he could plainly hear her breathing.
Then she said softly:

"If--if the child is better. I can't leave Marjorie until--until--"

"I understand," he cried heartily. "What a selfish beast I am. Don't
give me another thought. Your place is there. Because you are an
angel!"

Later on he sauntered over to the postoffice. A number of men
and women were congregated in front of the drug store, among them
Charlie Webster and A. Lincoln Pollock. The latter had his "pad"
in hand and was writing industriously.

"What's the excitement?" Courtney inquired, coming up to Charlie.

"Somebody poisoned Henry Brickler's collie last night," replied
Charlie. There was a dark scowl on his chubby face.

"You don't mean that corking dog up at the white house on the--"

"Yep. That's the one," replied Charlie harshly. "Anybody that would
poison a dog ought to be tarred and feathered."

"Who did it?"

"You don't suppose a man mean enough to give an unsuspectin' dog a
dose of poison would be kind enough to pin his card on the gatepost,
do you? I should say not!"

"But why on earth should any one want to poison that big beautiful
dog?" cried Courtney indignantly. "Had he bitten anybody?"

"Not as anybody knows of. Henry says he never harmed a living soul.
That dog--"

"By George!" exclaimed Courtney suddenly. "This reminds me of
something. I passed a couple of men last night down at the corner
where you turn up to Miss Crown's. They were leaning against the
fence on the opposite side of the road, and I had the queerest sort
of feeling about them. I felt that they were watching me. I remember
turning my head to look back at them. They were still standing
there. It was too dark to see what they looked like--"

"Wait a second," broke in Charlie. "Here's Bill Foss, the constable.
Tell it to him, Court."

The town constable, vastly excited, came up the street, accompanied
by two or three stern-visaged citizens.

"Well, by thunder!" growled the officer, wiping his forehead.
"Somebody's been making a wholesale job of it. Dick Hurdle's 'Jackie'
and Bert Little's 'Prince' are dead as doornails. That makes three.
Now, who the hell,--"

"Just a second,--just a second," cried A. Lincoln Pollock, elbowing
his way into the thick of the new group. "Let me get the facts.
You first, Dick. Where did you find your dog's remains? Now, take
it calm, Dick. Don't cuss like that. I can't print a word of it,
you know,--not a word. Remember there are ladies present, Dick.
You've got to--"

Mr. Hurdle said he didn't give a cuss if all the women in town were
present, he was going to say what he thought of any blankety-blank,--and
so on at great length, despite the fact that the ladies crowded
even a little closer, evidently reluctant to miss a word of his
just and unbridled blasphemy.

The occasion demanded the sonorous efficiency of Mr. Richard
Hurdle. In all Windomville there was no one so well qualified to
do justice to the situation as he. (Later on, Charlie Webster was
heard to remark that "as long as these dogs had to be killed, it's
a great relief that Dick's was one of 'em, because he's got the
best pair of lungs in town. He can expand his chest nearly seven
inches, and when he fills all that extra space up with words nobody
ever even heard of before, people clear over in Illinois have to
rush out and shoo their children into the house and keep 'em there
till it blows over.")

Doctor Smith came rattling up in his Ford, hopped out, and started
to enter the drug store. Catching sight of the druggist in the
crowd, he stopped to bawl out:

"Who's been buying prussic acid of you, Sam Foster? What do you
mean by selling--"

"I ain't sold a grain of prussic acid in ten years," roared Mr.
Foster. "Or any other kind of poison. Don't you accuse ME of--"

"Anything new, Doc? Anything new?" cried the editor of the Sun,
rushing up to the doctor.

"They got that dog of Alix Crown's. I tried to save him,--but he
was as good as dead when I got there. Of all the damnable outrages--"

"Miss Crown's dog?" cried Courtney, aghast, "Good God! Why,--why,
it will break her heart! She LOVED that dog! Men! We've got to find
the scoundrel. We've got to FIX him. He ought to be strung up. Has
any one called Miss Crown up, Doctor? She is in the city. She--"

"Mrs. Strong called her up. The automobile started for town fifteen
or twenty minutes ago to bring her home."

"Keep your shirt on, Court," warned Charlie Webster. "You'll bust a
blood vessel. Cool off! There's no use talkin' about GETTING him.
Whoever it was that planted these dog-buttons around town was
slick enough to cover up his tracks. We'll never find out who did
it. It's happened before, and the result is always the same. Dead
dogs tell no tales."

"But those two fellows I saw down at the corner last night--"

"Would you be able to identify them?"

"No,--hang it all! It was too dark. It was about half-past nine.
Why, earlier in the evening I was at Miss Crown's. I saw the dog.
He was on the terrace. He growled at me,--he always growled at me.
He didn't like me. Mrs. Strong came to the door and called him into
the house. I am sure he was all right then. When is he supposed to
have got the poison, Doctor?"

"This morning. She let him out of the house about seven o'clock.
Paid no attention to him till he came crawling around to the
kitchen door some time afterward. He just laid down and kicked a few
times,--that's what makes me think it was prussic acid. It knocks
'em quick."

"Come on, Charlie," cried Courtney, clutching the other's arm. "We
must go up to the house. There may be some trace,--something that
will give us a clue."

He was at the house when the car returned without Alix. She had
sent the chauffeur back with instructions to bury the dog. She could
not bear looking at him. She wanted it to be all over with before
she came home.

"I don't blame her," said Charlie soberly. "Shows how much she
thought of Sergeant when she's willing to pay five hundred dollars
reward for the capture of the man or men who poisoned him."

"Where did you hear that?" demanded Courtney, surprised.

"Ed Stevens says she told him to authorize Bill Foss to have reward
notices struck off over at the Sun office, offering five hundred
cash. She always said that dog was the best friend she had on
earth."

"But five hundred dollars! Why, good Lord, you can buy a dozen
police dogs for that amount of--"

"You couldn't have bought Sergeant for ten times five hundred,"
interrupted Charlie. "You see, as a matter of fact, he didn't
actually belong to Alix."

"You must be crazy. She has had him since he was a puppy three
months old."

"Sure, But, all the same, he didn't belong to her. He belonged to
David Strong. Davy got him in France in the spring of 1918 and sent
him clear over here for his mother to take care of for him."

Courtney was silent for a moment. "It's strange Miss Crown never
told me this," he said, biting his lip.

"Well," said Charlie quaintly, "far as that goes, I don't suppose
it ever occurred to her to tell Sergeant he belonged to somebody
else, but even if she had I don't reckon it would have made a darn'
bit of difference to him. He would have gone on loving her, just
the same,--and workin' twenty-four hours a day for her, Sundays
and holidays included. A dog don't care who he belongs to, Court,
but he's mighty darned particular about who belongs to him."

"I can't understand why he never seemed to like me," mused Courtney.

"Well, maybe," began Charlie soberly, "--maybe, after all, he DID
sort of know that he was Davy Strong's dog."

II

For three days Windomville talked of nothing but the "dog murders."
The Sun came out on Thursday with a long and graphic account of
the mysterious affairs of Monday night, including the views and
theories of well-known citizens. It also took occasion to "lambast"
Constable Foss with great severity. The Constable, being a Republican,
(and not a subscriber to the Sun), was described as about the most
incompetent official Windomville had ever known, and that it would
have been quite possible for the miscreant or miscreants to have
poisoned every dog in town, in broad daylight, accompanied by a
brass band, without Bill ever "getting onto it."

It goes without saying that everybody in town was stimulated to
prodigious activity by the reward offered by Miss Crown. Notices
were stuck up in the postoffice and on all the telephone poles. A
great many embarrassing incidents resulted, and three fist-fights
of considerable violence occurred,--for the gentlemen accused of
the crimes took drastic and specific means of establishing complete
and satisfactory alibis.

Courtney Thane chafed under the prolonged absence of Alix Crown.
Valuable time was being wasted. He had assisted at the burial of
Sergeant, and had shed tears with Mrs. Strong while Ed Stevens, the
chauffeur, was filling in the grave up back of the orchard; and he
had done further homage to the dead by planting a small American
flag at the head of the mound and,--as an afterthought,--the flag
of Belgium at the foot.

He felt that he had done very well by a dog that would have torn
him to pieces if encouraged by the merest whisper of the words "sic
'im!"

Alix returned late on Friday afternoon. He had a box of roses,
ordered from the city for him by Miss Flora Grady, awaiting her,
and with them a tender little note of sympathy.

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