The Ghost Breaker: A Novel Based Upon the Play Read online

  II

  THE BLIND PURSUIT

  The sad days immediately following the double funeral were so filledwith visits from relatives and old friends, legal transactionsnecessary for the transfer of the estate of the old colonel, asuccessful tobacco factor in his time, and a hundred and one otherengrossments, that in the months afterward they were hazy as anunpleasant dream.

  With the newly acquired calm which surprised him, Warren Jarvis left nostone unturned to ascertain, with quiet inquiries, the location of JimMarcum.

  There was no clew. The man had mounted a horse on the day of theshooting, to disappear down the dusty Kentucky road, leaving thevillage far behind and ignoring the possible escape by railroad. Hissimplicity was cunning, for the blue hills offered more avenues ofdisappearance than the iron roadbed of the local transportation.

  Equally cunning, however, was his determined pursuer. Warren Jarvis,after burying his parents, and making the conventional round ofrespectful ceremonies, started again for his neglected business in NewYork. Here he planned to adjust his affairs, then to return to themountain country, by a roundabout route, to begin his man-hunt,_incognito_ and unsuspected.

  "I'll cover every mountain trail, every valley path until I find JimMarcum," he confided to Major Selby, his father's closest friend, asthey stood on the train platform waiting for the final minute ofdeparture. "When it happens I will let you know, Major. Until thattime, good-by, and God bless you."

  The train had come, and unaccompanied by Rusty Snow this time, Jarvisclambered up the steps to wave to the old Kentuckian. As the majorturned away, he stroked his snowy mustache with a shrewd twinkle in hisblue eyes, to soliloquize:

  "I calculate the boy will make his father proud. The old feud bloodruns in the Jarvis veins, and even the North can't spoil him. I wonderwhy Rusty didn't go along--that darky will be broken-hearted to be leftbehind on the old place."

  But Rusty knew very well why he had been left behind!

  And with all his jolly laughter, plump complacency, and characteristicAfrican simplicity, Rusty Snow possessed an inherent faculty of subtleconcentration which had served the family of Jarvis since the days whenhe had been a slave pickanninny.

  A week or more he spent in the peaceful Southern hamlet of MeadowGreen, imbibing gin and ginger "pop" in the saloons frequented by thosewalking bureaus of information, the negro barbers. He consorted withdarky jockeys and horse-trainers--this was the center of the greatthoroughbred breeding district--and everywhere he went, with glisteningsmiles, laughing eyes, and infectious amiability, he bore one query inhis mind. Where was Jim Marcum?

  The query seemed unanswerable.

  Rusty confided his failure to Major Selby, who in turn sent a letter toWarren Jarvis at his New York club. There the latter was hastening hispreparations for the great _trek_ through the mountains. Warren hadclosed his office, where, profiting by his experiences in South andCentral America, he had maintained a successful exporting agency: allhis affairs were in hand, and that hand closed. All his outstandinginvestments had been hypothecated, with shrewd advantage. At last hewas ready, certain that should he lose his life in the vengefulventure, his kinsfolk would be taken care of, without legalcomplications: with all his inherited romanticism, Jarvis of Kentuckywas a man of astuteness.

  He was sitting in the grill of his club, brooding over a solitaryglass, unmindful of the friendly chatter of the members about him, whena uniformed page brought him a yellow envelope. He tore open thetelegram, sensing important news. It was only from Meadow Green that hereceived his club mail. And it was from Louisville that the messagecame. It was simple, and yet it left him bewildered.

  "WARREN JARVIS, Export Club, N.Y.

  Coming with Marcum. Buy supplies.

  RUSTY."

  At first Warren smiled, then he swore, as only a chivalrous Southroncan! Why should Rusty be coming with Marcum? He could not have arrestedor imprisoned him. What were the supplies? Evidently this was someattempt at code which was beyond his ability to guess.

  He spent the night and the next day in a perplexed mood.

  A wire sent to Major Selby, inquiring as to the whereabouts of thenegro, brought back the simple reply, "Missing--no one knows."

  Toward evening, after much perturbation, Warren decided upon a measureof preparedness for whatever might happen. He had given up his bachelorquarters on Madison Avenue two mornings previous, in expectation of thelong trip through Kentucky. One night he had spent at his club. Yet, ifMarcum were coming to New York, it were best to be located in someplace where he could cover his own identity without attractingattention. Such a place would naturally be a large hotel. Accordinglyhe registered at the Hotel Belmont under an alias. This was close tothe Grand Central Station--handy for a quick departure from town, ifsuch were necessary.

  Jarvis packed two suitcases with his modest needs for the Southerntrip, and donned his evening clothes for dinner at the club. Severaltelephone calls convinced him that Rusty had not made an appearance asyet.

  When he reached the club, the big building was swarming with men of hisacquaintance, yet he seemed curiously apart from them. Since hisfather's murder and the death of his mother, he had proceeded underwhat engineers call "forced draught." His nerves, like iron, had beendrawn tight--to the snapping point: only some great climax of reliefwould disentangle the tense feelings which he now controlled withexternal calmness, and sub-surface tremors which warned him of anapproaching catastrophe.

  For an hour he sat brooding in the quiet library of the club. He hadtried to eat; but all the artistry of the famous French _chef_ couldnot conjure up an appetite. Men passed by him, glancing curiously atthe usually jovial companion; the twisted, drawn expression surprisedthem. He tried to read a magazine; the printed lines "pied" themselvesbefore his twitching eyes, blurring into a vision of that last bitterscene in the room with his dying father. And even the vision had fadednow, to dissolve into one dull mass of color--a wavering, throbbingfield of _red_!

  "Mr. Warren Jarvis! Mr. Warren Jarvis!"

  The page stood by the library door, calling. He sprang to his feet,brought back to a consciousness of the present with galvanicsuddenness. He turned, bewildered for an instant, and then walkedslowly toward the boy.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "A man wants to see you, sir, down at the front door. A coloredman...."

  Jarvis waited for no more. He hurried down the oaken stairway, outthrough the vestibule, and hatless, breathless--relieved to a greatextent from his tension--he caught the hand of faithful Rusty Snow.

  "Lawd be praised!" murmured that jubilant henchman. "I done thought hemight beat me to it!"

  "What do you mean, Rusty? Why didn't you come inside?"

  "Dat cop at de door wouldn't let no darky come in. I want to talk toyou right away, Marse Warren. Right away quick."

  Jarvis turned about, with a direction to await him.

  He hurried to the coat-room, caught up his light overcoat and hat, andrushed out through the door. Rusty helped him into the garment, withfingers tremulous with joy at the renewal of this familiar and lovingtask.

  "Come, we'll go down the side street. I've given up my apartment, andthere's no place to talk but the sidewalk. What did your telegram mean,Rusty?"

  "Well, sah, jest what it said. I done followed dat man all de way fromMeadow Green to de Manhattan Hotel, dat's what it mean."

  Jarvis stopped and, with eyes dilating, looked Rusty full in the face.

  "Jim Marcum in New York? What can he be doing here?"

  Rusty chuckled.

  "Me--oh--my, boss, but dat's jest what I thought at fust. But now Iknows. I spent all my time an' all de money I could beg offen de majortryin' to snoop aroun' dem gin-mills down home to l'arn. An' it wasn'tontel yestiddy afternoon dat I seen dis yere Marcum come galloping downon hossback, wid some poh white trash moonshiner ridin' wid 'im. Deygoes right to de depoh an' jumps offen de hosses. I wuz in Eph Black'ssaloon, but dar ain
't nuffin missin' me. I walks over to de stationagent's winder an' I sees dis Marcum wid a roll o' bills dat wouldchoke a hoss. He buys a ticket, an' den he goes down de patform. I axesHen Barrows, de agent, where dat man goin'. He says Noo York. Den I issatisfied. I jest walks down de track to de junction, by de watertank."

  "Hurry up, Rusty. What about Marcum?" was Warren's impatientinterjection.

  "Wall, I sees dis yere man with 'im watchin' de platform--an' wen detrain pull in, inter it Marcum goes. She alluz slows up at desidin'--cause dere's a junction, an' so I jumps 'er, at de hindplatform. Well, Marse Warren, dat man he's on de train. It's only daycoaches ontel we gets to Lueyville, an' I walks from de Jim Crow carthrough de train just onct. Dis Marcum he don't recollect me,--I'm justa darky to him. But I sees 'im a-workin' in his seat wid som'pin datshows he recollects you, sah."

  "What was that, Rusty?"

  "He was a-oilin' a gun--an' you know who dat gun is for. He'll bea-lookin' for you, Marse Warren."

  "What did you do then? How did you manage to stay on the train?"

  "Oh, I jest stuck dere, Marse Warren. Dis nigger has had enough'sperience in dis world to know dat he spends all he has w'en he hasit. So de day you left I takes de money you gives me for a railroadticket, an' buys one an' puts it inside my pocket. So, I was ready fordis Marcum. I follows 'im to Lueyville, whar I telegram to you, andkeeps right on 'is trail w'en he changes cars for Cincinnati. He keepson comin' to Noo York, an' I am in de day coach all dat time. Den Ifollows right to de Manhattan Hotel. He ain't nebber been in Noo Yorkbefoh, because he walks all de way to de hotel instid o' takin' ataxicab. Dat man ain't no _quality_!"

  Warren was lost in thought. He stopped at the next corner.

  "Listen, Rusty. You did good work. I wanted to have you find him, andinstead he came right to me. Now, we must end this whole thingto-night." For an instant the Kentuckian was nonplused, andinstinctively turned to the old family servant with that curious trustwhich the native Southerner instinctively places in the "family" negro."What shall I do now, Rusty?"

  Rusty's usually big eyes narrowed to slits in which the whites werehardly visible.

  "Marse Warren, jest wait for dat man. He's here, you knows it, for yourlife. Ef you cain't git him, _I can_. I got mah razor an' dat's abetter weepon dan any ole gun. You jest wait--an' let me do de rest."

  Warren turned and started back toward the club.

  "I'll be waiting at the Export Club, Rusty. If he hunts up my addresson Madison Avenue, the hall boy will send him there. If he wants to seeme, he already has my address--and everyone in Meadow Green knows theclub as my address. Now, you go up to the rooms I have taken in theBelmont Hotel. The room number is 417--you just wait there until youhear from me. What did you mean by 'supplies' in that telegram, Rusty?"

  The darky chuckled.

  "Lawsee, Marse Warren, I knows dat you is a reg'lar Noo Yorker by distime and don't carry de supplies of a gentlemen. I mean a .38-caliber!Has you got one?"

  Warren smiled for the first time since their surprising meeting.

  "No, I guess I have become a victim of New York. The worst weapon Ihave on me, Rusty, is a fountain pen--and I'm afraid Jim Marcumcouldn't read the ammunition!"

  Rusty looked slyly about him. They were in a dark spot on Fifth Avenue,the shop fronts deserted and not a pedestrian within a block. The darkyslipped his hand into his pocket, and surreptitiously handed his mastera heavy, portentous automatic which would have sent joy into the heartof a Texas Ranger. There was a vibration of honest pride in his voiceas he explained:

  "Dere, Marse Warren. I went widout po'k chops an' chicken all de way toNoo York jest to lay in supplies while I was waitin' betwixt trains atLueyville! I 'lowed you all 'd be too wrapped up in yoh troubles terbother about dis, an' I recomembered dis here Noo York Sullivan Laww'ich makes it a crime fer a decent citerzen ter carry a gun, so datthe burglars kin work in peace. Take it, Marse Warren, an' plant everyseed in de right place!"

  The tears came into the eyes of the Kentuckian.

  "Rusty, you're a jewel!"

  "Yassir, in a ebony settin'! But, now, please git back to dat clubplace, an' wait fer Jim Marcum. Dat man's mind was on his bizness whenI seen him in de smokin' cyar, an' he ain't thinkin' of nothin' else!"

  They strolled down toward the club again. Warren gave a few partingdirections and handed Rusty a roll of bills for emergency.

  "Remember, Rusty, when you hear from me by any message at all, you'reto come at once,--I'll just mention my first name. I'm registered atthe Belmont as John Kelly of New Orleans--I couldn't hide my Southernaccent. Tell them you're my valet, and show the key--I can trust you toget up to the room. If I call for you, pay the bill from that change,and don't let the grass grow under those number twelves!"

  Rusty smirked happily.

  "Hallelujah, Marse Warren, you'se jokin' agin--de fightin' blood of deJarvises is bilin'--I knows de signs. Why, Marse Warren, I recollectsyoh father when...."

  But his master's face changed.

  "Not now, Rusty. I'm thinking too much about my father. No more talkfor either of us. Just action."

  He turned into the side street toward the Export Club. Rusty--freshfrom Kentucky psychology--doffed his cap and disappeared as Warrenentered the Grecian portal.

  Inside the clubhouse he found a letter awaiting him. It was scrawled inthe bold, ungrammared style which might have been expected. He read itstanding tensely by the doorway, as dozens of men walked in and out,little dreaming of the tragedy attached to that casual fragment ofwhite note-paper. It was written on the stationery of the HotelManhattan--diagonally across the street from the hostelry where Warrenhad inadvertently registered for his brief stay in the city.

  He read the words again and again.

  "DEAR JARVIS; export Club, new York.

  am visiting in New York and would like to see you and call off our kwarrel youre fathers death was misunderstandin and were last of our families will be at Above hotel all evenin and tomorrow come Around when you get chance and shake hands i Will prove I aint meant no harm.

  Friend JIM MARCUM."

  The Kentuckian crumpled the note in his hand, and then walked towardthe fireplace of the grill. It had been weeks since any logs had beenburned there, but the flakes of soot still clung to the stone casement.Warren struck a match, and a curious smile illumined his face as heignited the paper, holding its flaming fabric between his fingers untilthe last half-inch had burned. He dropped the tiny fragment afterlighting his cigar with its flame.

  One of his friends, a Brazilian coffee merchant, addressed him in thenative tongue, which Warren spoke as fluently as English.

  "Ah, _senor_, you care not for your letter?"

  "Oh, it's just a little invitation to a party to-night," laughed Jarvisof Kentucky. "If anyone found it on my person, he might think I keptlate hours and associated with bad company. Let us have a drink to ourfriendship in the club, for I may take a long journey to-night, andnever see you again!"