The Killer Read online

  CHAPTER III

  The room was small, but it was papered, it was rugged, its floor waspainted and waxed, its window--opening into the court, by the way--washung with chintz and net curtains, its bed was garnished with sheets andcounterpane, its chairs were upholstered and in perfect repair andpolish. It was not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet andgarnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut village. Mydirty old _cantinas_ lay stacked against the washstand. At sight of themI had to grin. Of course I travelled cowboy fashion. They contained atoothbrush, a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter item wassheer, rank pride of caste.

  It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strangest part, ofcourse, was the fact that I found myself where I was at that moment. Whywas I thus received? Why was I, an ordinary and rather dirty cowpuncher,not sent as usual to the men's bunk house? It could not be possible thatOld Man Hooper extended this sort of hospitality to every chancewayfarer. Arizona is a democratic country, Lord knows: none more so! Butowners are not likely to invite in strange cowboys unless theythemselves mess with their own men. I gave it up, and triedunsuccessfully to shrug it off my mind, and sought distraction inlooking about me. There was not much to see. The one door and onewindow opened into the court. The other side was blank except that nearthe ceiling ran a curious, long, narrow opening closed by a transom-likesash. I had never seen anything quite like it, but concluded that itmust be a sort of loop hole for musketry in the old days. Probably theyhad some kind of scaffold to stand on.

  I pulled off my shirt and took a good wash: shook the dust out of myclothes as well as I could; removed my spurs and _chaps_; knotted mysilk handkerchief necktie fashion; slicked down my wet hair, and triedto imagine myself decently turned out for company. I took off my gunbelt also; but after some hesitation thrust the revolver inside thewaistband of my drawers. Had no reason; simply the border instinct tostick to one's weapon.

  Then I sat down to wait. The friendly little noises of my own movementsleft me. I give you my word, never before nor since have I experiencedsuch stillness. In vain I told myself that with adobe walls two feetthick, a windless evening, and an hour after sunset, stillness was to beexpected. That did not satisfy. Silence is made up of a thousand littlenoises so accustomed that they pass over the consciousness. Somehowthese little noises seemed to lack. I sat in an aural vacuum. Thisanalysis has come to me since. At that time I only knew that mostuneasily I missed something, and that my ears ached from vain listening.

  At the end of the half hour I returned to the parlour. Old Man Hooperwas there waiting. A hanging lamp had been lighted. Out of the shadowscast from it a slender figure rose and came forward.

  "My daughter, Mr.----" he paused.

  "Sanborn," I supplied.

  "My dear, Mr. Sanborn has most kindly dropped in to relieve the tediumof our evening with his company--his distinguished company." Hepronounced the words suavely, without a trace of sarcastic emphasis, yetsomehow I felt my face flush. And all the time he was staring at meblankly with his wide, unblinking, wildcat eyes.

  The girl was very pale, with black hair and wide eyes under a fair, widebrow. She was simply dressed in some sort of white stuff. I thought shedrooped a little. She did not look at me, nor speak to me; only bowedslightly.

  We went at once into a dining room at the end of the little dark hall.It was lighted by a suspended lamp that threw the illumination straightdown on a table perfect in its appointments of napery, silver, andglass. I felt very awkward and dusty in my cowboy rig; and rather toolarge. The same Mexican served us, deftly. We had delightful food, wellcooked. I do not remember what it was. My attention was divided betweenthe old man and his daughter. He talked, urbanely, of a wide range oftopics, displaying a cosmopolitan taste, employing a choice of words andphrases that was astonishing. The girl, who turned out to be very prettyin a dark, pale, sad way, never raised her eyes from her plate.

  It was the cool of the evening, and a light breeze from the open windowswung the curtains. From the blackness outside a single frog began tochirp. My host's flow of words eddied, ceased. He raised his headuneasily; then, without apology, slipped from his chair and glided fromthe room. The Mexican remained, standing bolt upright in the dimness.

  For the first time the girl spoke. Her voice was low and sweet, buteither I or my aroused imagination detected a strained under quality.

  "Ramon," she said in Spanish, "I am chilly. Close the window."

  The servant turned his back to obey. With a movement rapid as a snake'sdart the girl's hand came from beneath the table, reached across, andthrust into mine a small, folded paper. The next instant she was back inher place, staring down as before in apparent apathy. So amazed was Ithat I recovered barely soon enough to conceal the paper before Ramonturned back from his errand.

  The next five minutes were to me hours of strained and bewilderedwaiting. I addressed one or two remarks to my companion, but receivedalways monosyllabic answers. Twice I caught the flash of lanterns beyondthe darkened window; and a subdued, confused murmur as though severalpeople were walking about stealthily. Except for this the night hadagain fallen deathly still. Even the cheerful frog had hushed.

  At the end of a period my host returned, and without apology orexplanation resumed his seat and took up his remarks where he had leftthem.

  The girl disappeared somewhere between the table and the sitting room.Old Man Hooper offered me a cigar, and sat down deliberately toentertain me. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was also amusinghimself, as though I were being played with and covertly sneered at.Hooper's politeness and suavity concealed, and well concealed, a bitterirony. His manner was detached and a little precise. Every few momentshe burst into a flurry of activity with the fly whacker, darting hereand there as his eyes fell upon one of the insects; but returning alwayscalmly to his discourse with an air of never having moved from hischair. He talked to me of Praxiteles, among other things. What should anArizona cowboy know of Praxiteles? and why should any one talk to him ofthat worthy Greek save as a subtle and hidden expression of contempt?That was my feeling. My senses and mental apperceptions were by now alittle on the raw.

  That, possibly, is why I noticed the very first chirp of another frogoutside. It continued, and I found myself watching my host covertly.Sure enough, after a few repetitions I saw subtle signs of uneasiness,of divided attention; and soon, again without apology or explanation, heglided from the room. And at the same instant the old Mexican servitorcame and pretended to fuss with the lamps.

  My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, but I could guess no means ofsatisfying it. Like the bedroom, this parlour gave out only on theinterior court. The flash of lanterns against the ceiling above reachedme. All I could do was to wander about looking at the objects in thecabinet and the pictures on the walls. There was, I remember, a set ofcarved ivory chessmen and an engraving of the legal trial of someEnglish worthy of the seventeenth century. But my hearing was alert, andI thought to hear footsteps outside. At any rate, the chirp of the frogcame to an abrupt end.

  Shortly my host returned and took up his monologue. It amounted tothat. He seemed to delight in choosing unusual subjects and then backingme into a corner with an array of well-considered phrases that allowedme no opening for reply nor even comment. In one of my desperateattempts to gain even a momentary initiative I asked him, apropos of thepiano, whether his daughter played.

  "Do you like music?" he added, and without waiting for a reply seatedhimself at the instrument.

  He played to me for half an hour. I do not know much about music; but Iknow he played well and that he played good things. Also that, for thefirst time, he came out of himself, abandoned himself to feeling. Hisclose-cropped head swayed from side to side; his staring, wildcat eyeshalf closed----

  He slammed shut the piano and arose, more drily precise than ever.

  "I imagine all that is rather beyond your apperceptions," he remarked,"and that you are ready for your bed. Here is a short document I
wouldhave you take to your room for perusal. Good-night."

  He tendered me a small, folded paper which I thrust into the breastpocket of my shirt along with the note handed me earlier in the eveningby the girl. Thus dismissed I was only too delighted to repair to mybedroom.

  There I first carefully drew together the curtains; then examined thefirst of the papers I drew from my pocket. It proved to be the one fromthe girl, and read as follows:

  I am here against my will. I am not this man's daughter. For God's sake if you can help me, do so. But be careful for he is a dangerous man. My room is the last one on the left wing of the court. I am constantly guarded. I do not know what you can do. The case is hopeless. I cannot write more. I am watched.

  I unfolded the paper Hooper himself had given me. It was similar inappearance to the other, and read:

  I am held a prisoner. This man Hooper is not my father but he is vindictive and cruel and dangerous. Beware for yourself. I live in the last room in the left wing. I am watched, so cannot write more.

  The handwriting of the two documents was the same. I stared at one paperand then at the other, and for a half hour I thought all the thoughtsappropriate to the occasion. They led me nowhere, and would not interestyou.