CHAPTER XVII. THE WOLF HOUND'S NEW MASTER
Far famed detectives have lived in all ages, but it remained for the modern operative to enlarge the perspective. Intuition still ruled as a first qualification, but the real prime requisite changed to "knowledge of men." Not only their cunning but the whites of their eyes and the shapes of their heads. The "hatchet face" one type, the "round head" another, and the month they were born in—an important clue as to temperament. On the charts prenatal influence had much space for remarks—also the color, of eyes, and the color of hair, curly or straight, the nose pug or aquiline—the mouth large or small—curved up or down.
Parkins, on the Updyke chart, registered as "low brow," meaning thick hair growing far down the forehead—no matter the color. But when considering hair, red heads warned of danger—once started, they fight. Black hair generally stood for impulsiveness and quick temper. That was the Parkins type, with hair as dark as a raven. Born in June, his stone was the agate—naturally drifting toward the "good fellow" class—the kind that need wonderful mothers to hold them in check through the days of their youth.
George Carver, now flivvering his way to Patchogue, was a brown haired "husky" with big open face that bespoke sterling character, and what is known as "horse sense." Instead of being brilliant, he was apt and quick of discernment. He could match with all types and win by his coolness. But he knew the value of getting in with the first blow. To him a run on lonesome roads meant nothing, either in daylight or darkness—he was always prepared—his intuition unerring. So when entering Patchogue he skirted the town on its farthest east line and hit the trail for the outer drive. The townspeople were just rubbing their eyes before leaving their beds when he muffled his engine and scooted across the little city. By the time he returned the stores would be open and Julie Hayes would have taken down the shutters from Winifred's booth.
When in close proximity to the Parkins hut his small car, with hood down, was turned off the trail into an arroyo. From there, with a pair of strong field glasses in the early morning light, he drew the little shack right up to his eyes. He could see every crack in the unpainted planks, and by maneuvering, belly fashion, along the grassy slope, he gained a knowledge of three sides. In the rear a huge wolfhound lay curled in a heap, and the chain in its collar reached through the boarding, evidently permitting release from inside.
It was a dangerous moment, had a breeze from the north been stirring, for one whiff of strange flesh might have brought on a death struggle. With an automatic forty-five silencer drawn along at his right side, and a pistol in holster for close quarters, Carver drew a "bead" on the dog and awaited further developments. He watched the big brute with the eyes of a hawk, and noted through his glasses that the animal slept uneasily. It might have been the cold of early morning, but a wolf hound had never been known to shiver in less than zero weather. Carver was well posted on dogs. He was that type of man at whom dogs never snapped or offered to bite. So, with silencer in readiness, he puckered his lips and gave a low whistle.
At once the big brute arose to his haunches and whined.
Something wrong about the premises was Carver's first thought. A dog of that breed would not bid for friendship with a stranger unless actuated by an instinct that a friend was near by. But it was no time to take chances. The first thing he thought of was that Parkins had not returned and the dog had been left without water or food. On the other hand a wolf hound invariably fought the stranger at its gate. They were never allowed to roam at large except in forest camps, or on extensive estates. The situation was altogether strange, and, to prove it, Carver rose to his knees.
He expected a wild lunge on the part of the dog but the brute rose to all fours and wagged his tail, whining the while, as he strained at his chain. That seemed full evidence that Parkins was not in the hut, and forthwith he stood up and walked toward the dog, now manifesting great joy. At the length of his chain Carver reached out his hand, but with one eye on the hut—then he patted the dog on its head.
That settled the friendship between them. Carver then pulled out a chocolate bar and tearing off the wrapper reached out his hand. One sniff and the big brute took it into his mouth and practically swallowed it whole. He was starving—further evidence that the master was still at large.
After parting with his last piece of chocolate Carver walked to the front of the hut and tried the door.
It was locked.
He then took out a bunch of keys and tried to fit one in the lock, but none of them would enter.
Then he reached for his electric torch and peered into the keyhole—there was a key inside that obstructed!
Carver dropped to the ground, on his stomach, and with his automatic reached far up on the door and gave it a thump.
There was no response, whereupon Carver shouted—"Parkins" in a voice both harsh and loud.
"Wake up, you scoundrel, and open this door! You can't play any tricks on us! We've got you surrounded! Make one bad move and we'll kill you!"
There was no answer—except the whining of the dog in the rear.
"What do you say, boys!" shouted Carver to his "phantom" companions. "Shall we burn the place down? Those in favor will raise their right hands! Unanimous, eh?—then bring the oil can," continued Carver, who shouted—
"We give you one minute to open the door—hush boys!—keep your eyes open, and cover this place. When I say the word put a match to the oil!"
Then all became still save the dog in the rear, which strained at its chain and sent up pitiful howls, as if baying at the moon now fading in the early daylight. No answer forthcoming he kicked at the door and it made his blood tingle as it swung back—wide open!
Carver jumped to one side and reached for his torch, with that in his left hand he searched the front room. It was a moment when courage had no chance to take counsel. The advantage now lay with the man that he sought. The glare of the torchlight swung into each corner, all over the room, and under the bed, but only a shirt and some clothing lay on top of it. Parkins had been there recently for the imprint of his body showed on the coverlet and an empty bottle rested under the pillow. Next came the bath-kitchenette.
One glance into that and the story was told!
In his night clothes Parkins lay dead in his bath tub, his legs at the bottom and his dead body floating. His eyes, partly closed, seemed to stare at a picture, an old-fashioned daguerreotype. "From Mother" was printed at the bottom of the cheap little frame. On the floor were empty bottles, and one partly filled, was clutched in the dead man's hand. Evidently he had placed it there within easy reach, as he lay in the water refreshing himself—hours after his escape from Dreamy Hollow.
Making careful notation on a sheet from his note book Carver drew a rough plan of the scene to be given to Updyke. In a combination cupboard he found the remainder of a parcel of food, crackers and sausage, and a slice of cold beef. These were fed to the famishing dog, then closing the door he hurried back to Patchogue, where he phoned Dreamy Hollow.
"Well—it's all for the best," said Updyke, not without a shade of sorrow at the tragic death of the man. "He was a stormy petrel, as I've often said, and he sacrificed his life upon the altar of booze."
"I'm thinking of Winifred," said Carver, huskily. "She——"
"Calm your soul on that point—she never loved him. He was thought to be a friend of the family, but she found that he was just an old-fashioned knave. She and I have talked over this whole matter, and I know what I say is true. Shall I phone her the news?"
"Yes, if you will. What shall I do about the corpse?"
"Just turn the whole matter over to the coroner, and if any questions are asked, refer him to me. There is no longer any chance of publicity. A burial notice among the paid advertisements. That's best for him, and best for all. After you have made your report to the coroner beat it for home and go to bed."
"But that wonderful dog—I want him! We already love each other."
"Go get him and take him with you. But don't you ever tell your wife that he once belonged to so and so. Just say that the poor thing seemed to have no master so you picked him up and brought him home. Now that is no lie."
"You are a great old bird, Henry. I'll do as you say. No use to talk with Julie, I imagine, except about the booth."
"That's all," said Updyke, "go on about your business and I'll pick up the matter just where you left off."
"Tell Mary that she may stand a chance to get that quiet little dinner after all," laughed Carver.
"What do you know about that?"
"I'm a married man and we fellows know everything!"
"That will be all from you! I may cut you out of my gold expedition, if you get gay. So long."
The death and burial of William Parkins received the exact amount of space that Updyke had indicated to George Carver—four nonpareil lines among the death notices—paid for by the Updyke Agency. Henry Updyke himself wrote the announcement. And then came the search for the stolen funds which were quickly found within a hundred feet of the hut with only a thousand missing. The Quebec Agency was notified quickly and the bank officers were profoundly thankful. They wanted to reward the agent, but that was tabooed by a terse telegram.
"We never take money that we do not earn stop we sent the man up in your country to reform him stop we accept the liability as our own and are sending check today for a thousand. For all favors we thank you—signed Updyke."
At last came the evening when, without the least "fuss and feathers," Mary Johnson leaned back in Henry Updyke's big car and drank in the ozone of Westchester county. She looked a dream in her light summer furs and stylish coat that concealed her pretty party gown. Twenty miles whizzed by with little in the way of conversation when suddenly the car made a quick turn, and stopped in the shadows of a great boulder. Behind them lay Riverdale, and the black forests of Spuyten Duyvel loomed ahead, just across the East River, five hundred feet below. The moon was now doing its best to light up the mighty Hudson. Nothing like this grandeur had Mary Johnson's eyes beheld. A thrill of ecstasy crept into her heart. A new world was opening before her, and all within the limits of little old Manhattan, where all kinds of worlds exist—pay as you enter and take your choice.
"I never dreamed of such splendor!" sighed Mary, her heart filled with emotion, which was just like most women, who cry when they are glad.
"Well, little girl, while you go on dreaming I'm going to say something to you," said Updyke, gruffly.
"I'm always glad to hear your voice, dear," replied the girl still awed by the scene.
"I love you!" exclaimed Updyke, in as harsh a tone as a frightened man of his size could muster.
"Say it again," said Mary, snuggling closer.
"I meant it the first time, and I never repeat," he fumed uneasily.
"Oh, do—just to please me," she whispered.
"No, mam!—what I want is a kiss!"
"S'pose we kiss each other—dear?"
"All right here goes," and with that Updyke took her bodily into his arms and held her there until the moon lady looked down and laughed at them. And when all was said, and the gardens of their two hearts had been merged into one, Updyke suddenly recollected the seats he had engaged on the Swathmere roof.
"I am hungry, Mary. Shall we jog along back?" he asked meekly, as if taking orders for the first time in his life.
"I could stay here forever," said she, putting her lips up to be kissed.
"Let's get married to-night," suggested Updyke, his eyes aflame.
"No, sir! with one good dress to my name—Never!" exclaimed the girl.
"Well, you hurry up those dresses. Your pay is raised one thousand dollars. Draw it to-morrow and go up the line. You ought to get a couple of 'em for that," said he, grinning.
"Thanks for the raise, dear, but I'll buy my own wedding clothes. I haven't thrown my earnings away. How about that little dinner at the——"
"Nuff said," replied Updyke, "but you just keep those arms about me while I do the driving. They don't seem to bother me," said he, chuckling down in her pretty face.
At the Swathmere two tall hatted porters ran out to the car, and with much ado landed the guests under the canopied entrance, where they were met by the captain and escorted up-top to the table that Updyke had engaged.
"Does you know who that big fellow is?" inquired one porter of the other.
"I don't reckon I does. He don't look good to me, nohow!" was the answer.
"Well, be ca'ful of yo' step when you see him edgin' yo' way!" warned the other. "He's de bigges' ov 'em all—gits 'um goin'—and gits 'um comin'—is you guilty?—den kiss yo' baby good-by!"