“What’s the matter?” Duncan whispered as he stopped.
“This darned swamp’s thinning.”
“It had occurred to me,” Duncan agreed. “I was afraid to speak of it.”
“Look at those palmetto clumps,” Morgan went on excitedly. “They’re not as high or as thick. There isn’t as much water. Beau, old boy, I believe we’re going to get out!”
“There’s certainly higher ground ahead,” Duncan answered. “Come on, Bobbie.”
“Beau! Think of the food and the cigars!”
“Oh, you won’t have any taste for decent tobacco,” Duncan said carelessly.
Morgan made a wry face and rubbed his knee.
“And this rich food isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Rich food for the idle rich!”
They struggled through the last of the underbrush and stepped into the open pine forest. There was hard soil or sand beneath their feet. About them the sun laid warm, caressing fingers of light. Insects droned, and birds sang joyously. Before long they came to trees scarred by turpentiners, and later to a wood road.
They paused and stood awkwardly for a few minutes without words. The road — narrow, twisting, and overgrown — screamed of civilization, of populous cities, and of marts noisy with commerce.
“We’ve discovered America,” Morgan said.
“Yes,” replied Duncan. In a moment he added: “I believe you agreed to give me an hour and a half. Therefore, I will resume my travels.”
Morgan looked at him with an air of childish wonder.
“So I did,” he answered dreamily — “an hour and a half!”
He pulled his wits together.
“Cross my heart, I’ll stay where I am for an hour and a half after I lose sight of you.”
“Quite satisfactory,” Duncan said.
“Before you go,” Morgan began uncomfortably, “I’d like to hand you a few words of thanks on this auspicious occasion.”
“There’s no question of thanks,” Duncan protested politely. “Undoubtedly we were mutually helpful.”
Morgan extended his hand.
“Beau, good-bye.”
He essayed a little humour.
“That is — so long. It won’t be many days before we meet again. I am looking forward to it.”
Duncan took the detective’s hand.
“This is an eternal farewell. In some ways I regret it. Good-bye, Bob. You’re sure you can navigate until you come to a house?”
“Sure. I’ll steer into the first drydock I see and have them light a fire under me.”
Their hands dropped. Duncan hesitated. Finally he put his fingers in his pocket, pulled out tobacco and paper, and rolled a cigarette. He handed it to Morgan, who mechanically placed it between his lips. Duncan divided the tobacco. He gave a part of it with several papers to Morgan. Then he turned and strode off through the woods.
Morgan sat down. He watched the tall, gaunt figure about which ragged clothing flapped until it was out of sight. Very soon he became restless. He took the paper and tobacco and tried to make a cigarette, but his fingers were clumsy. The flakes spilled, and the thin, slippery paper tore. As his desire to smoke even this distasteful makeshift increased, the picture of Duncan’s deft manipulation came into his fancy and lingered.
He opened the chess board to study the unfinished game. His line of attack was perfectly clear in his mind now. As move by move its beauties unfolded he chuckled quietly. Duncan was helpless. Suddenly his chuckling ceased. There was one obscure move that Duncan might have offered in reply. It would have spoiled the entire combination. Yet it was the advancing of a pawn on the extreme flank, and its immediate significance appeared of minor importance.
“Duncan wasn’t wise to it,” he told himself.
And after a moment:
“Could Duncan have been hep?”
He puzzled over the board for a long time. He arose and paced back and forth.
“He might have forced a draw with that move,” he mused, “or even a winning attack. I’ve got to know what he would have done. I’ll ask him when I nab him.”
He took out his watch. Duncan had been gone two hours.
Morgan didn’t follow the route Duncan had taken. The memory of his lonely wanderings kept him in the road which brought him before dark to a turpentine camp. He accepted the foreman’s hospitality for the night.
He set out early the next morning with the foreman’s horse and buggy which he was to send back from the nearest railroad station, five hours away. The road was long and monotonous, but he sat at his ease, smoking bad cigars which he had bought at the camp, and singing snatches of popular songs in praise of his release from muscular effort.
His thoughts of Duncan centred about the uncompleted game of chess. While he was confident that Duncan’s capture was only a matter of time, he refused to bother his head with definite plans until he reached the railroad. These few hours, this long journey, were a vacation from mental and physical labour — an excursion in contentment.
The appearance of the country had not altered when the shriek of a locomotive whistle warned him his ride was nearly ended. He touched the whip to his horse for the first time and was soon on the right of way. He saw the glittering lines of steel, a rough section house, and a water tank; but in front of him the woods were as thick as those he had just left. He pulled up, thoroughly puzzled, for he had expected to find a station at this crossing.
Suddenly his curiosity died. His indolent figure stiffened. His hand went to his coat pocket where the revolver with its single remaining cartridge lay. A filthy man in rags was trying to conceal himself behind one of the insufficient tank supports.
Morgan stepped from the buggy, levelling his revolver.
“Duncan,” he said, “I warned you it was ‘so long.’ ”
“It’s Morgan, of all the world,” Duncan answered, but his smile was sickly. “If that train had only stopped I’d have missed this pleasant reunion.”
“You ought to be grateful. Nice people are waiting to weep on your neck up North. Come on out and let’s hurry home.”
“Not so fast, Morgan. I can easily get away from you. But I confess to a strong desire to finish that game. Suppose for that purpose we arrange another truce.”
“We’ll finish it on the train,” Morgan answered with a grin. “I’ve got you beaten so many ways I blush to think of it.”
“Have you?” Duncan asked slily. “How about that pawn? I win!”
Morgan’s mouth opened. His revolver arm dropped.
“You never saw that—”
Duncan sprang from behind his post, and bounded across the right of way for the woods.
Morgan raised his arm again.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
But Duncan ran the faster. The muzzle of Morgan’s revolver was pointed at the fugitive’s back. He had brought down wild turkeys. The result was certain.
Then his arm swayed gently to one side. The movement seemed almost involuntary. He pulled the trigger. He sped his last cartridge into the heart of an innocent pine tree.
He thrust the gun in his pocket and started in pursuit. When he reached the edge of the woods Duncan had disappeared. Morgan sank to the ground. He rubbed his knees ruefully. He shook his head. He shrugged his shoulders. Sitting there in a heap he lighted one of his vile cigars.
“That blasted rheumatism!” he moaned. “That blasted rheumatism! It must have jumped to my gun arm. I’ll have to report sick. I’m not worth a hill of beans at this business as I am. I wonder if I’ve got anything besides rheumatism.”
As he blew the stinging smoke from his nostrils he smiled reminiscently.
Simple
by P. C. Wren
A special treat for you this month. The author of “Beau Geste” offers us one of the most deceptive little mysteries in modern fiction. It is a mystery, not of crime, but of situation — a strange problem that confronted the Mayor of Sonango, in Central America, on that awful day known thenceforth as “Boulder Day”; and how the laziest hidalgo between the Rio Grande del Norte and the Panama Canal solved it. Can you? Percival Christopher Wren calls it “Simple.” Perhaps you won’t find it so!