Report on Vanessa Hewstone Read online

  “Even at that,” said Noah, “you just made it, didn’t you?”

  “I’ll say! For while I was there the water really started to rise. Because of, it appears, their having to open the gates of the great dam far up stream. When I stepped off, after tethering the boat well, believe you me, to the iron stake on the island, the water, thanks to the vault being on slightly lower land than the rest of the island, was just coming up to the bottom of the margin of the new letters cemented on the tomb, and—”

  “Letters? New—letters?” Noah leaned forward sharply. Frowningly. “What—do you mean?”

  “Oh,” said Mark Vasey, frowning a bit himself, “I mean that the evening before, the town glazer, Sam Glass, in line with Philaster McCorniss’ will providing the same be done within a year, cemented a line of metal letters along the island-side tomb-face reading—sure!—PHILASTER U. McCORNISS—what else? The ‘U’ being, if I’m not mistaken, for Uriah, his legal middle name. Copperish-greenish letters cut from some kind of patented metal or alloy that can never rust, tarnish, or oxidize.”

  “Copperish-greenish letters—”

  “Yeah. With even fluted, or rippled, edges, rather outlines. Designed even, I understand, by the dead man. Weirdest I’ve ever seen in my—well, if it had been my tomb or vault or what, I’d have had my name chiseled in the name-side, and melted copper or bronze poured into the indentations so that—but listen, Chief, the town papers told all this. Don’t you read the town papers—when you pass through places? Don’t—”

  “I’m—I’m afraid not,” admitted Noah. “Besides, at Shelby’s Bluff we had complications a-plenty. Such as—well, you say the water wasn’t near the letters when you landed, but when you pulled off—what?”

  “Sure wasn’t, Chief. But before I pulled away—oh, I did sort of hang around out there a while, and had to put on my boots. For by the time I was unleashing that boat, I was actually standing—in water. Water that even then was above the line of the letters. That’s how fast—I pulled away,” finished Mark.

  “Um?” said Noah Quindry, “When—when will the tomb be exposed—again, do you think?”

  “Search me! They plot the river rise, you know. And when it comes to rise at less rate, it’s about to stop and—starts to subside. They can calculate, almost to a T, when it will—at least I understand it can’t go higher on the vault than the sides, including the side containing the letters—but when the vault itself will all be exposed again, I really wouldn’t—what’s the diff anyway, Chief,” Mark Vasey almost pleaded. “I did all I wanted to do!”

  “Wanted—to do?” said Noah sepulchrally. “Which—was what?”

  “Oh,” said the other, “I mean—get a snapshot of the tomb. The side with the lettering, of course.”

  “Snapshot? You—you photographed it—before you—that is, before it became sub—”

  “Before the water riz, yes,” Mark replied. “Yes, Vanessa has a print of it I gave her. And the film’s in my trailer in case you’d like a print for yourself. It may be a valuable pic someday. Because it shows the vault as ’twill never be again.’

  “Never—be again? What—do you mean?”

  “Oh hell, Chief, once the water’s really down, curiosity-seekers galore will be going out there from Shelby’s Bluff—will be chipping off those cemented letters, even though plastered by then with river-bottom mud, for souvenirs. And luckpieces. There won’t be a letter left, a week or so after the water is all down.”

  “Hm? After a week? Yes, you’re right. Souvenirs. Hm? Luckpieces? Hm.”

  Noah sat thinking dourly, sourly. Helplessly.

  And Mark Vasey came to. In fact, he looked suddenly thoughtfully speculative, pondering. Then a sort of relief broke out on his face. He gave a gesture with his hands,

  “Well, Chief, I guess I’ve got to plunge on now! If I’m to get aboard that lone train out of here.” He rose. “Don’t take any wooden rubles while I’m—however, we’re not in Russia yet, are we?”

  “Thank God, no!” said Noah. “It’s still a free land where a man—even if he is the son of a circus fat woman—and grew up flunkeying around Ringling Brothers’ Circus—can start a circus of his own, and—why, if Stalin’s present successor—however you pronounce his name!—were running things—good luck to you,” he broke in, “in whatever you’re leaving the show—for.”

  The sharpshooter grimaced. Strode over to his waiting suitcase-like travelling bag. Took up his hat, and flung it, somewhat awry, on his head. Took up the metal-covered case too. Drew open the door of the trailer, and with a brief salute, dove down into the night, closing the door after him.

  And Noah was left alone.

  He sat thoughtfully, ever so thoughtfully. Then rose suddenly. Went over to the phone. Rattled it for the town operator.

  “Get me,” he said, when the town operator answered, “Shelby’s Bluff—on the Mississippi. Yes, Shelby’s Bluff. Specifically, Pop Starkweather, known as the Keeper of the Motorboats-for-Rent Wharf. Yes, I’ll wait!”

  CHAPTER VII

  To Ascertain a Firebug

  Connections were made quickly in this land of small towns, where long-distance phone was seldom used. And practically not at all ever made at this hour.

  For the tones of a drawling man not unlike Tom Huggins came on the wire.

  “This is Pop Starkweather speakin’,” the tones said. “Who’s—”

  “Pop,” explained Noah quickly, “this is Noah Quindry. Of Quindry’s—”

  “Mist’ Quindry! How nice! To have you call atter yo’ve lef’. Didn’t reckon to hear yo’re voice fer ’nother year. It’s sure—”

  “Yes,” Noah cut off all these river-bottom pleasantries. “Say, Pop, I suppose that everybody in town will be racing out to McCorniss’s Isl—or more correctly, Bleeker’s—Island, once the water’s down—wait—how is the water there—now?”

  “Wa-all, the report is it’s ’bout t’ turn. Ef it turns, it’ll drap in 24 hours, ’r so.”

  “Is that right? Well, as I say, I suppose everybody in town will be racing out there to see the island after the small inunda—”

  “Hell—f’r, no, Mist’ Quindry. Ever’body around here’s seed all them things time galore. Islan’s kivvered with mud an’ stumps an’—why, man who’d land thar after the water draps, he’ll sink to his shins in muck. ’Cose, we rent boots hyar ’s well as boats. So—but no—folks won’t go out to that fool mud bar.”

  “But maybe they will,” persisted Noah, for reasons best known to himself. “Since—”

  “Maybe no, Mist’ Quindry,” corrected Pop Starkweather firmly. “In fac’, def’nitely no. Fer it’s knowed ’long th’ river that it’s plenty bad luck to step on a islan’ atter water’s receded from it, ’twell the moon changes. An’ that won’t be fer 10 days yit.”

  “Hm? Well maybe you, who make your side money on people going out there—will be going—to check the island’s possibilities as—as a picnicking point or—or what?”

  “Me?” said Pop Starkweather, actually aghast. “Not me, Mist’ Quindry! Guess you don’t know I cain’t swim. An’ Granny Swetch, up the river, who has a faculty fer foretellin’ the manner o’ folks’ deaths, has tolt me I’m t’ die from drownin’. Wa-all, this’ one time Granny’s perdictions hain’t—an’ cain’t—come true!”

  Pop paused.

  “No, I don’t never go out in the boats. Let other folks git drownded, say I. Not me.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, Pop, would you do something for me—something that’s highly, highly confidential, I mean?”

  “I shore would, Mist’ Quindry. An’ thank you for that word ‘conf’dential’.”

  “Oh,” deprecated Noah, “they call you Close-Mouth Cal down there—but didn’t you know that? They say that never has it been known for you to have spilled anything told you, or arranged with you, in confidence.”
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  “Wa-all yes, I do know. An’ that’s ’bout all I got on the ball. So what kin I do fer you, Mist’ Quindry—an’ conf’dential?”

  “And profitably too, Pop.”

  “Prof—”

  “Yes. For doing the thing—not keeping it under cover, for you’ll do that if just asked—for just doing the thing—I’ll pay you $50, when all done and completely.”

  “Fifty—bucks! Mist’ Quindry—fus’ time I ev’ got an’thing fer bein’ trustwuthy as t’ buttonin’ m’ mouth. So shoot? What kin I do?”

  “Well, Pop, I want you to—but listen, Pop, I suppose people visiting town—going through and all that—and travelling salesmen and so forth—aren’t held by same superstitions as you describe such as—”

  “I know whut you mean. ’At’s right. I may make a leetle money fer boat rentals, a’ right. To suttin’ cur’os’ty seekers as may be in town atter th’ water draps. By o’ course keepin’ m’ mouth shet as to how soggy things’ll be out t’ the islan’! Yeah, I reckon this ’r that visitor—or some drummer—’ll hanker to chug out an’ see that thar bur’al vault brung f’m Tibbety.”

  “Beyond any doubt, I’d say. Well, Pop, will you—but wait!—if you rent rubber boots, I suppose you rent cameras—for taking pictures? And—”

  “Heck yes, Mist’ Quindry. 50 cents rents a snapshot cam’ry with flashbulbs, w’en deposit is left.”

  “Ah—fine. Well all is set then for what I want you to do. Well, Pop, will you offer the first person that goes out to the island, after the water has dropped away, free boat-rental—and free camera rental, to boot—if he’ll report to you whether any letter is missing from the side of that vault.”

  “Missin’? Hell—f’r, Mist’ Quindry—them new metal letters ’uz ce—mented on. The water risin’ won’t melt ’em off. They—”

  “Ah me—ah me, Pop! I happen to know, alas, of a man who isn’t daunted when it comes to—hrmph—comes to filching souvenirs such as—but I’ve stated what I want you to do, Pop. To offer free launch-rental—and free camera-rental for just a report as to whether any letter is missing; and—”

  “Yeah? An’?”

  “And a snapshot of the side of the vault showing it. Report and picture to be sent to me, of course, per the route which your town phone girl has.”

  “Well—ah—shore—shore, I will. But I don’t und’stand, Mist’—”

  “I know you don’t,” said Noah, difficultly. “It’s an awful strange request, I know. But you see, Pop, the last man out there, as the water rose—rose to even cover the letters—”

  “Yeah, I know. Yo’re bow-an’-arrer man—in the sarcus. Dang me, but ’at feller kin shoot!”

  “I’ll say. But Pop, he—he may have—a screw loose. A screw that’s even dangerous to life—to life and limb—of people around him. It will depend altogether on whether, when out there, he stole the ‘U’ standing for ‘Uriah’.”

  “Ya-as, I see,” acquiesced Pop, without any argument. “I’ve allus heerd ’at folks ’at do one tarnation crazy thing, ’ll do others. Wa-all, I’ll ca’y this all th’ough, as yo’ say. Fus’ pusson who goes out thar, once the water’s down—wa-all, I’ll ’rrange with him to do all this—’thout explainin’—other than t’ jest say a—a souvenir hunter is thunk to have went out there—and I’ll report to you at oncet. With—”

  “With snapshot picture—to back it up—whatever it is?”

  “’Cose, ’cose, ’cose! Wa-all, this is a durned simple an’ easy way to ’arn $50. And a simple way fer somebody to ’arn free motor-boat rental. Simple fer ever’body. Simple—but what you goin’ to do ef the report I git—an’ the snapshot pikter—shows this p’tic’lar feller you have in mind stole that U?”

  “What won’t I do?” almost groaned Noah. “What—but I can’t do anything—till I find out for absolute certain—can I? Since—”

  “Right! Wa-all, Mist’ Quindry—set yo’re min’ t’ rest now, ’bout findin’ out the set-up out thar as to them letters as they wuz w’en th’ water riz. No, I reckon yo’re mind is t’ rest on that. Fer yer bow-an’-arrer man he rented a cam’ry. So set yo’re mind t’ rest now ’bout findin’ out the set-up o’ them letters—as the water fell. Cain’t nobody meanwhile reach th’ islan’ cep’n f’m hyer. ’Count th’ other bank crost the way, fer miles an’ miles, is all swamp—an’ thar’s nobody livin’ on it. Whoever gits out there fus’ll go f’m hyar. An’ I’ll give you, shore’s my name’s Cal, the report o’ that fus’ man goin’ out. Whoever he turns out t’ be.”

  “Right, Pop. The first one. Whoever—he turns out to be.”

  There was silence. And now Pop, as though feeling he was causing long-distance expense, muttered a hurried “g’bye” and hung up.

  And Noah returned to his table. Knowing that now, at last, he had a method to prove conclusively whether Mark Vasey, while out there on that island—rather, shortly before leaving—had, with chisel and hammer taken from his own clothing, or from the boat tool-kit, filched that U that represented the Uriah of Philaster McCorniss.

  And if Mark had—well, after that, half groaned Noah—the deluge!

  CHAPTER VIII

  “Mr. Quindry—May I Come In?”

  Noah now glumly resumed the writing of his long letter to the Washington official who had tipped him off to the terrible situation existing in his own show. He covered considerable pink paper area, too, in this writing. Finally setting down his pen. And waving the final page in the air to dry it. And now took up the reading of his completed letter, a few lines back of where he’d last broken off. And which, resumed true, now ran:

  He’s now leaving the show—on some mysterious unstated business—unstated, that is, as to nature and object—to be gone 12 days. Since he provides now—in face of your own information—a sort of pivot for my suspicions, I can, while he is gone, it’s true, lay a trap or two. Involving U’s. Should the trap not be even nibbled at in his absence, I am in position, then and there, to be fairly certain—

  Still, confound it, sir, what would I have—if no U-baits are filched, abstracted, stolen, or even monkeyed with, in his absence? I’ll—I’ll have purely negative proof! Negative, most certainly. For you can’t arrest a man—or even accuse a man—for not stealing a U, can you? No, you can’t do anything on negative proof. Negative proof is only, at most, a directive beam or so—one has to operate more—more cunningly.

  There is, however, sir—as I ascertained only since starting this comprehensive letter to you—one possible concrete “proof” I can perhaps elicit, that won’t be negative! If elicited, that is! It—

  Noah stopped reading. For outside the trailer, on its lot side, came a girl’s sweet voice.

  “Mr. Quindry? This is Vanessa. May I—come in?”

  CHAPTER IX

  Vanessa

  Vanessa!

  Vanessa Hewstone.

  The pretty “spot-girl” he’d hired to act as assistant to his Robin Hood the II’d. And to be, at other times in the show, “spot-girl”, “princess” in the “Grand Splash”, and whatnot else. Vanessa. In love, perhaps, with a criminal firebug. And he—he, Noah Quindry, had brought it all about. How awful.

  He laid his letter down in front of him, with the ink bottle atop it. Turned to partly face the trailer door. Called out, loud enough to pass through it.

  “Come in, my dear! I’m quite—at leisure.”

  Again the trailer door, as a short while before, opened. Again was disclosed the flash of the lot—trailers lined up across murky dark area—lights in all. But this time it was of course a girl’s petite body that proceeded to blot out the background as it rose in process of ascending the two topmost steps of the trailer flight, and obscure the opening. Once inside, its owner closed the door behind her. She was no more than 22 years of age, and was clad in the costume with which she placed the different target objects dur
ing the bow-and-arrow act: her Sherwood Forest “Merry Men” costume.

  For the coat-shaped upper garment framing the slender torso was, of course, of brilliant “Lincoln Green”, even to its broad 4-inch untanned leather belt buckled by a huge handcarved horn buckle. Laced together all the way down its entire front with crimson thongs, it fell only halfway down the bare slender upper arms—or at least so did fall the lighter greyish-green soft undergarment that peeped forth, sleeves and bottom. This garment, terminating at its bottom in a row of triangles, going clear about the girl’s slender self, fell only to the middle of her bare shapely legs, revealing thus her white ivory thighs and lower limbs clear down to the green-thong-laced red leather high boots. On her head was the pointed hat of Lincoln Green wool, with slightly rolled up edge, and a long slim crimson feather shooting from its side, but upward and backward.

  Even the blue of her eyes was the blue of English lakes; the short-cut roll of curling golden blonde hair, each side under the rolled up edge of the Lincoln Green hat, was the blonde hair of Maid Marion herself, of Sherwood Forest. The lips were not crimsoned, for they were already, in sheer naturalness, as crimson as the thong lacing the single upper jacket. Indeed, Vanessa Hewstone was completely minus the hardness of the usual circus performer.

  Noah Quindry had automatically arisen on her entrance. It was one reason why he was so loved in the profession—certainly, by the women performers. Always the soul of courtesy.

  “Have a seat, child,” he said. “Across from me here, yes.”

  It was then that Noah Quindry remembered that he had his hat on in the presence of a woman. He grimaced.

  “Prepare now, my dear, to be blinded! The light above hitting my—my polished dome—well, where you’re standing—”