A MYSTERY
"Say, what kind of a time did you have in Paris, boy?" exclaimed Gideon Watts. "Give us the latest news from civilization. What's in that bundle? Newspapers, by Jove! Hooray!"
It seemed as if every one in the room were intent upon shaking the newcomer's hand at the same identical moment.
"Had a perfectly dandy trip," returned the smiling Don Hale. "Maybe I didn't enjoy every minute of it, too. What do you think?—I actually saw an air raid on Paris. But the anti-aircraft guns soon sent the Kaiser's bomb-droppers flying to the cover of the nearest clouds. Hello!—a new member?"
"Ah, Monsieur, nous avons oublié quelquechose. Pardon our lack of politeness," laughed Bodkins—"also, I might say, my use of French. Honestly, fellows, it's like second nature to me now to let it roll off the tip of my tongue, and——"
"I've seen some Frenchmen almost roll over with mirth when they heard it," broke in Watts, cruelly.
"Jealousy!—there's another mean fling thee has to thy credit," sighed Bodkins. "Really, somebody ought to take a correspondence school course in manners. But here's what I intended to say: Mr. Chase Manning and Mr. Don Hale—let me introduce you to each other."
The newest member of the section and the youngest driver thereupon shook hands.
Then, after each had spoken the pleasant words appropriate to such an occasion, Chase drawled, slowly:
"'Pon my word, Mr. Hale, I never expected to see a youngster like you holding down such a responsible position! Why in the world did you come to France?"
Don gave a merry, infectious laugh, though he flushed a trifle at the reference to his boyish appearance; for he, in common with many lads of his age, liked to be considered as approaching man's estate.
"I'll tell you, Mr. Manning," he said.
"Call me Chase, if you please."
"Very well, sir, I will."
Don drew up a stool, stayed a hurricane of questions which the ambulanciers shot toward him from every quarter of the room with a cheery, "All right, fellows—just a minute," and, desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the taciturn young man, began his explanations.
In terse sentences he related how he and his chum, George Glenn, had left Chicago with the intention of joining Mr. Hale, who belonged to the aviation corps, in Paris. On reaching New York, however, they found that a letter and remittance which the two expected had not arrived. Don took passage on a munition ship and had a thrilling adventure at sea. Afterward he met George Glenn and they journeyed to the war zone together. A series of surprising incidents followed, and did not end until they encountered Mr. Hale in a little French village.
"By George! 'Pon my word!—quite a story," commented Chase at its conclusion. His face actually lighted up with a smile. "And then, not satisfied with all that excitement, you had to join the Red Cross in order to get a bit more, eh?"
"No; it wasn't for the sake of the thrills, though they come pretty often in the day's work," laughed Don.
"What's become of your friend?"
"George? Why, he's preparing to enter the aviation service."
"Then he's sure to rise above you very quickly," drawled Chase.
"Ha, ha!" giggled Bodkins. "Did you hear that, boys? Chase Manning's first joke. Remember the day and date."
Don joined in the general laugh which followed, then remarked:
"And now, Chase——"
"Nothing doing, son. My history wouldn't interest even a cat," broke in Chase, quickly. His voice and manner underwent a sudden change; once again he appeared the same surly, discontented chap as before. "You may have this much information, however: I'm from that 'somewhere in America' known as Maine."
By this time many of the ambulanciers were eagerly examining the Paris newspapers—the first they had seen for some time—while others fairly peppered the aviator's son with questions concerning his trip. A journey to the French capital, after the hard grind of work and the dangers to which they were daily exposed, really marked an epoch in the lives of the drivers, and the next best thing to enjoying the pleasure themselves, according to the majority, was to listen to an account of the experiences of some one who had.
And, very naturally, Don Hale, bubbling over with buoyant spirits, had much to say.
While engaged in conversation they heard the sound of an explosion, startlingly loud, rising above the clatter of passing traffic and dull booming of artillery.
"Hello! There's a shell that landed almost near enough to say, 'How do you do?'" cried the chef.
Chase hastily sprang from his seat, with his mouth half open.
"Great Scott!" he blurted out, with a perceptible tremor in his voice. "I never heard one of these confounded things burst so close to the old shack before."
"I know of a certain village which the Boches didn't present with a single shell for months and months," put in Dunstan, dryly, "and just when everybody began to consider it a lovely and peaceful place—a haven of refuge in time of danger—the German batteries, early one morning, suddenly started working overtime. No, Messieurs, it probably will never be rebuilt."
"That's liable to happen here, too," remarked Bodkins, not very reassuringly. "We're only a few kilometers from the front. But what do we care, boys! Isn't there a dandy underground shelter right back of the quarters for us to drop into when things get a bit too squally! Why, it's got a roof of sand-bags and dirt about eight feet thick. Only a shell landing very close could do any harm; so let's cheer up."
A momentary silence ensued, and Dunstan Farrington thereupon began tapping in a very nonchalant fashion upon the table.
Any keen observer might have noticed that of all those present but one paid attention to his action. A curious, eager light instantly sprang into Don Hale's eyes; a smile curved his lips. For Dunstan, using the Morse code, was sending a message to Don, who, being a former wireless operator, of course understood.
Rather laboriously the art student spelled the words which form this sentence:
"Chase, our new member, is an odd sort of a chap. Some of the fellows think he has a yellow streak. We're curious to see what he'll do when under fire."
Humming softly, and with a twinkle in his eye, Don sauntered over to the table, and, in a considerably more expert manner than his fellow driver, made a series of taps upon its surface.
Dunstan had no difficulty in translating the following:
"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."
Dunstan replied:
"A grouch of the first class, Don."
Again: "Don't judge too soon."
"What's the matter—do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"
And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.
"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."
"Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."
Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.
Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.
At length John Weymouth raised his hand.
"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"
"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."
"There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase."
The latter shook his head.
"Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals."
"Dunstan, then?"
"He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people."
"Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are——"
"Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform."
"What shall it be—fact or fiction?" asked the art student.
"Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh.
Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the crowd.
"By George, fellows, that effect of light and shade on your faces and figures is simply corking!" he cried, with enthusiasm. "Rembrandt himself——"
"I told you!" snickered "Peewee."
"The story first and Rembrandt afterward," commented Watts.
"All right, boys." Dunstan, with a sigh of resignation, seated himself on the edge of the table and began swinging his legs to and fro. "I'll relate a little bit of truth that may sound like fiction. Hello!"
Bang! Bang!
Two other concussions, though not quite so loud as the one previously heard, crashed in upon his sentence.
Chase squirmed uneasily in his seat. It required no skilled observer to detect the fact that his nerves were shaking.
"Confound it!" he muttered.
"Oh, that's nothing," Weymouth assured him. "When they hit the house next door it'll be time enough to worry."
"As I wasn't saying," resumed Dunstan, after a moment or two had passed, "my story concerns a French château—one of those typical old châteaus dating from the feudal ages, and within the massive walls of which——"
"He's getting off to a good, flowery start, all right," chirruped "Peewee."
"The nobles and landed gentry dwelt." Then, with a cheery laugh, Dunstan continued, in a more matter-of-fact way: "Just the other day a couple of poilus gave me the tale I'm now passing along to you. In this ancient château, which the Germans shelled and partly wrecked, there lived a direct descendent of one of those old-time seigneurs. The soldiers declared he resided in the great château alone, with a retinue of servants, and that he had the reputation of being an eccentric old chap with one great hobby."
"And what was that?" queried Wendell.
"The collection of paintings and objects of art."
"There it comes, boys!—the art stuff again!" exclaimed "Peewee," yawning. "Say, this is a fairy tale, eh, Dunstan?"
His words were couched in a tone of accusation.
"No, mon ami, not a bit of it," declared the art student, earnestly. "A long article concerning the Morancourt case appeared in a Paris newspaper."
"Morancourt? Why, that's the old place right near us here—up toward the front!"
"That's the very place, my son."
"Hah! The plot thickens. What is the 'case' you spoke of?"
"The Count de Morancourt had in his gallery some of the most valuable of all old masters—a Correggio, a Titian and a Botticelli, besides several examples of the Dutch school, such as Rembrandt and Franz Hals, for instance."
"Well, suppose he had—what of it?" demanded "Peewee," a trifle impatiently. "He isn't the first old gent that's been a bug on collecting pictures. Where does your story begin to become a story?"
"The French government made many efforts to acquire some of Count de Morancourt's treasures for the Louvre," answered Dunstan, "but he always refused to dispose of them."
"No story yet," growled "Peewee."
"Wait."
"That's what we're doing."
"Not long after the beginning of the war the count left the Château de Morancourt and also the land of his birth and set sail for America. Now comes the curious part of the story. With the government and the most famous art dealers of Europe on the qui vive to get hold of his old masters it would have been practically impossible for the count to sell them without the fact becoming immediately known."
"Quite true," assented Wendell.
"It has been proven, too, beyond all doubt, that no part of his collection accompanied the grand seigneur to America."
"What is all this leading to?" inquired Watts.
"Only this: that all the valuable paintings and bric-à-brac, without exception, have disappeared—vanished—gone!"
"Vanished!" echoed Don, his face lighting with interest. "A jolly nice mystery, I call it. There's where the story becomes a story, eh, 'Peewee'?"
"It sounds like one of those 'to-be-continued' yarns," grumbled "Peewee." He winked impressively at Bodkins. "Anyhow, what's the use of ado and chatter about a few old paintings? I'm on call to-night, boys—which means that I must be ready to take out my car at an instant's notice. Guess I'll hit the pillow."
He stretched himself and yawned.
"Why don't they get the old count to explain the matter?" inquired Weymouth.
"I understand he can't be found," answered Dunstan.
"Perhaps the stuff is all in Berlin."
"The Château de Morancourt was never in the hands of the Germans."
"It might have been stolen by some of that great retinue of servants you spoke about," suggested "Peewee."
"Not at all likely. They were sent away some time before the count himself left."
"Well, if official investigators can't solve the mystery I'm sure it's no use for us to puzzle our heads about it," put in Watts. "I always like a story which has some sort of an end, Dunstan. Your affair of the Château de Morancourt wouldn't be so bad but for that."
"I say, let's visit the place the very first chance we get," cried Don. "Those old castles always interested me immensely, and in this case that mystery'll add to the charm."
"Sure we will, Don."
"I reckon I'll go along, too," declared the taciturn Chase, somewhat to the surprise of the others—"that is, if we don't happen to get blown into bits beforehand."
"We'll be glad to have you," said Dunstan, cordially. The art student smiled. "Of course I don't mean blown into bits." He looked around. "Any one else?"
No enthusiastic response came to his ears, whereupon he broke into a hearty peal of laughter.
"I see my story has fallen rather flat," he chuckled. "But never mind, boys. Perhaps our visit to the Château de Morancourt may be the means of our being supplied with an interesting chapter or two on the history of that ancient structure."
"At least it will be a pleasant change," grunted Chase.
"I know how it'll all end, Dunstan," giggled "Peewee." "You'll bring back a pencil drawing, all shaded by hand and labeled with the title and the date of the date."
"All shaded by hand!—the date of the date!" scoffed Bodkins. "Take my advice, 'Peewee'—never speak unless you're spoken to; then the extent of your dreadful ignorance won't be so noticeable."
Dunstan joined in the merry laughter at the expense of the grinning "Peewee" which followed, then, seizing Don by the arm, he exclaimed:
"Come, boy, you look quite serious—upon what, may I ask, are your thoughts fixed so intently?"
"Upon the Château de Morancourt," laughed Don. "That's quite a story, Dunstan."