“Frankly, I believe that he is on the level about this job he’s given us — but, again, you never can tell. Report to me, of course, every morning, when you come off watch.”
I buckled on my six-guns; then, as an afterthought, added a derringer to my equipment. It was hard indeed to associate the smiling, debonair, good-looking Flash Santelle with anything evil, but, as I had just said to Jim, you never can tell.
“How’s the scenery?” I asked, after. I was fully geared.
Jim surveyed me critically — pretty much as a trader does a horse which he is mighty suspicious of — and replied:
“O.K, except that you bulge a trifle over each hip. But that will be laid to avoirdupois, rather than hardware, I reckon. On the whole, and considering who they’re on, the glad rags do the tailor proud.
“Don’t forget and split the tails of the coat when you sit down. You might expose your rear attachments, and them cannons certainly ain’t good taste in polite society, and the other is that such ain’t being done. Sit right down on the tails, and let the presser take care of the wrinkles—”
“I merely asked for an opinion, Jim,” I interrupted, “and not a whole statute by the supreme court en banc. Time for dinner, I see, so you’ll have to say the rest of it to yourself. Remember me, old man, about an hour from now — when you’re scoffing with the rest of the servants.”
I made an exit on that, and strolled leisurely down the stairway and joined a group on the big veranda. I’d been introduced at tea time that afternoon and, so far as I knew, had stood the test. So I wasn’t worrying any to speak of.
Uncle Cato was relating something tunny, as I approached, and the group about him did him the honor to laugh appreciatively. They were a cultured and high-toned lot, those guests.
Old Anderson Bailey was paying a good deal in the way of lost social prestige by backing young Mr. Cletus Santelle to the extent of taking him and his uncle up, but he could afford to do as he darned well pleased — and did do just that, on all occasions. He was a bullheaded man, to put it mildly.
His laugh was loudest, and a hand rested friendly upon Uncle Cato’s off shoulder.
Besides his money, Anderson Bailey had something else to distinguish him. A daughter. The girl — about twenty years old — was a blonde, but not the type called dizzy. She was a little slip of a person, slender and graceful, with lots of honest yellow hair, and a pair of big, violet-colored eyes that seemed to be always laughing. If I’d been a trifle older, I’d have loved her like a father.
She had been christened Martha, but later on changed it to Marthe. She’d have changed the family name, too, the story goes, but came squarely up against the old man’s veto when she tried it. She desired it spelled Baillie. The old man wanted it to remain Bailey — and it remained. That episode surely ought to furnish a fair line-up on Marthe.
Roscoe Patterson, a cattle baron of a past era, then a retired magnate of some kind, had a good-looking wife, a fair-looking daughter — and a son who was the real article.
Tommy Patterson was a tall, athletic chap of twenty-five — and a he-man with it. Went through the business overseas. Started in a private, and came out a top-sergeant. Roscoe’s money and influence might have obtained for Tommy a grand stand seat, thereby making the war much quieter and a lot safer for him, but the young man wouldn’t have it that way. As a result he saw the ruckus with his naked eyes, instead of through binoculars. A likable youngster, from all accounts.
There were others of the cast present, of course, but I’m not going to dwell much on any except the principals. There were two more women and three more men in the minor roles, and that’s attention enough for them.
Dinner was announced directly after I appeared, and I had the pleasure of pairing off with an empty-headed lady who either had an impediment in her speech or hadn’t learned to talk, for she gave me little trouble in a conversational way, and that enabled me to listen in and do a lot of observing.
Say what you please, people give away a lot about themselves when they’re eating — and that applies to those for whom knives, forks and spoons have no mysteries, as well as to the hand-to-mouthers.
Chapter VII
A Sealed Letter
I had an arrangement with Santelle whereby I was at liberty to run into the city after the evening frolic was over, returning along about noon the following day. Business in the office had to be looked after, making such a deal necessary. Had I known when Flash made his bid for my services, that my crack mingler would not be available, I would have turned the job down. I explained that to him, and he made no objection to my daily excursions into town.
I had no uneasiness about absenting myself from the place, because I was leaving a good man on the job. One I could trust as I would myself — and that’s saying a lot. Jim Steel would take care of the situation during my absence.
About one o’clock on the morning following my first evening as a mingler at Willow Bend, which proved to be rather entertaining but not at all exciting, I motored in with one of Flash’s launches. The Kaw had no mysteries for me, and I was as much at home in a motor boat as I was in a rocking-chair, so night running was a real pleasure.
At ten o’clock that morning, just as I was beginning to get ready to depart up river again, Spec brought word that a woman wished to consult with me, but refused to send in a card. I scented business at once.
The ones who come cardless, make you promise never to reveal their identities, usually turn out to be anything but triflers and time wasters. They can be counted on to produce liberally, I’ve learned. I had her in.
A tall, slender young woman in very neat and fashionable attire, she proved to be — and a beauty. Spanish was her type.
Just enough of the foreigner about her to make her attractive in a mysterious, romantic way. She wore jewels, too, but not too profusely: just enough for good taste.
“You wish to remain incognita?” I queried, after she had taken a seat. “If so, please give me an alias — any you choose will be all right with me. Something to call you by. If I do not take your case, you will remain unknown. If I accept it, I shall require your real name. Are you willing to proceed with that understanding?”
She gave me a steady look out of big, brown eyes, smiled a trifle wanly, and spoke:
“My business with you can hardly be regarded as a ‘case,’ ” she informed me. “But it may be one later. I have a sealed letter,” she went on, “which I wish to intrust to your care. I wish you to place it in your safe and leave it there until this hour to-morrow morning. If I have not called for it, or have not communicated with you by that time, you will open the letter immediately. You will then have a case, as you term it.
“Should I call for the letter, you will return it to me intact, and then forget about it. Is that agreeable? Will you accept?”
I nodded. She went on:
“You may put my name down as Ayra Banning,” she instructed. “It may or may not be an alias, which, I take it, is neither here nor there. What is your charge for the service?”
I named it, and she handed me a pad of bills and a letter. The letter, in a long envelope, was considerably thicker than the pad of bills. I’ll add. A moment later she was gone, leaving behind her a haunting sense of mystery, and the scent of lilac perfume.
I put the letter away; then, on thinking the matter over, decided to learn, if possible, how this mysterious, hypnotic beauty happened to pick on the Kaw Valley for her commission. With that end in view I called up Chief Eager. He was, and is, a bountiful source in the matter of clients.