Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 22/Number 2/The Fluctuating Package/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
A VISIT OF FRIENDSHIP.
ONE inconvenience about traveling light, as Ruthven had traveled from Burt City to Dry Wash, was this: that he had to go to bed at the hotel while his wearing apparel was being dried and put into shape. Ever since hurrying to the Burt City railroad station with Summerfteld, on the telephone request of Harrington, Ruthven had been entirely the creature of chance.
Again and again he had changed his plans, as one fresh development after another presented itself. Now he had made up his mind to defer calling at Barton's upper ranch and to return by first train to Burt City. He was urged to this by Weasel Morrison's dark threats against McKenzie. To guard against any possibility of trouble, Ruthven thought it better to acquaint the junior partner with what had happened.
"I'm blest if I know what the Weasel has at the back of his head," said the detective, dropping into Ruthven's room while he was waiting for his clothes. "He is crazy mad at this man McKenzie, and he'll do him dirt if he can. Maybe Morrison's hatching up something to put over on an innocent man. We can't tell about that. I'm going to take him to Monte Carlo, for we have him cinched for that job, and on the way I guess we'll stop off at Burt City. There may be something important for me to know in this McKenzie matter. It's just as well to probe it, anyhow."
"If Morrison is hatching up anything," declared Ruthven, "it is all a tissue of lies. Why, McKenzie is a member of the legislature and a man of high social standing, respected by all who know him. Morrison is of the underworld, and not in McKenzie's class at all. I don't see why you should stop off with Morrison and call on McKenzie. Just the looks of the thing ought to keep you from making such a move."
"Morrison says McKenzie's daughter met him on the train between Williamsburg and Burt City. Do you know anything about that?"
"The conductor of Seventeen, Leason, told me something about it," answered Ruthven reluctantly.
"That looks as though there might be something between Morrison and McKenzie, doesn't it? I'm going to see what sort of a game Morrison is trying to play, anyhow. We'll take the afternoon train to-morrow. That will suit me best."
"And I'm taking the first train in the morning."
"You'll see McKenzie?"
"Certainly. His daughter is a fine girl and a friend of some very good friends of mine. I wish you'd reconsider, Hackett, and not get off at Burt City with this rascally prisoner of yours."
"That's all right, Ruthven," said the detective. "It's a good thing to let Weasel Morrison say to McKenzie's face whatever he's got to say about him. Lies can be nailed in that way quicker than in any other. If McKenzie sent that anonymous letter to Jenkins, tipping off the Weasel's game, then he must have had some secret source of information. I'm going to find out what it is."
Hackett's determination to get off the eastbound train at Burt City was inflexible, and Ruthven yielded the point. After all, he would get to McKenzie several hours before the detective and Morrison could reach him, and he could at least prepare the man for what was to come.
In the afternoon Ruthven bought a new hat at Grandy's, and in the gray dawn of the following morning he went down to the railroad station, boarded the train, and started back toward Burt City. The train was No. 6, and was due at Burt City at eight-thirty. It was the same train Lois had taken when she went to Williamsburg and rode back on Seventeen with Weasel Morrison.
When he disembarked at his destination, Ruthven dropped into a restaurant for a late breakfast. Avoiding the express office, and a discussion with Summerfield that might consume too much time, he proceeded straight to The Emporium. The senior partner greeted him with a wide and quizzical smile.
"You didn't stay with our little party t'other day, eh, Mr. Ruthven?" he said.
"No," was the reply. "I'd like to see Mr. McKenzie."
"He's stayin' home to-day—-hasn't been feelin' real prime for some sort of a while. A little rest is what he needs, and I'm goin' to see that he gets it. How big was that package of Barton's when you seen it last?" Long chuckled. "Still growin'?"
"It was delivered—Tom Barton got his boots," and, with this, Ruthven hastily departed and made for McKenzie's house.
Lois answered his rap at the front door. Her eyes were red, as though she had been weeping, but she made a brave attempt to appear like herself.
"Will you step in, Mr. Ruthven?" she invited.
He entered the hall, left his hat there, and was ushered into a pleasant sitting-room and given a comfortable chair. The silence was broken by the monotonous ticking of a clock and the occasional piping of a canary. A big gray cat arose from a cushion, surveyed the visitor with leisurely interest, and then lay down again. The surroundings were all very neat and homelike, and now that Ruthven had come to the point of his errand he was conscious of a growing constraint.
"I wanted to see your father, Miss McKenzie," said he.
She seemed to flinch, although her eyes regarded him steadily. "Is it very important?" she returned. "Father is not well and is lying down. I hate to disturb him if it is not necessary."
"It may be important, or it may not. You can be the best judge of that by telling me if you know a man named Weasel Morrison, and whether your father sent an anonymous letter to a deputy sheriff in Dry Wash warning Miss McKenzie! Forgive me if I have startled you."
The girl had jumped forward in her chair, so shocked by his words that she gasped and pressed a hand to her throat! A chill sped through Ruthven's nerves. Lois' actions convinced him that she knew the scoundrelly Morrison, or knew of him; but his sympathies were aroused, and he started to his feet, anxious and a bit dismayed. With a fluttering hand the girl waved him back to his scat.
"Why do you ask such questions, Mr. Ruthven?" she queried, in a voice scarcely more than a whisper.
"Because," he answered sympathetically, "it may be that I can do your father a service. I want to be your friend, and his, if you will let me. What I am trying to do this morning. I feel sure, is what Miss Arnold would want me to do if she were here to speak. My motives are disinterested, entirely so, apart from the one desire to render your father a service."
There was a stir in a doorway leading to another room. Ruthven looked around to see McKenzie, clad in a dressing gown and slippers and his gaunt face like death itself, standing there. His burning eyes were fixed upon the caller.
"Father, go back!" begged the girl. "You are not fit to be on your feet." She turned appealingly to Ruthven. "You see?" she added.
Her father, however, pushed resolutely into the room and came slowly toward a chair. "Mr. Ruthven, Lois," said he, in a tone which he strove hard to command, "is a friend. I can read that in his face, and I can see it in his actions. Let me talk with him, dear. I am no weakling"—he smiled faintly—"and I guess I know how to face trouble."
He turned to Ruthven. "I know Weasel Morrison," he went on, "and my daughter knows of him only through me. As for the rest, I am willing to acknowledge to you that I sent an anonymous letter of warning to the deputy sheriff in Dry Wash. You have something to say about Morrison, Mr. Ruthven. What is it?"
"He has been captured!"
A wild exclamation broke from the girl's lips. McKenzie dropped into the chair as though felled by a blow. A moment later the girl was perched on the arm of the chair, one arm around his neck and one hand stroking his graying hair.
"Never mind, daddy," she murmured. "Right is right, and you'll not be made to suffer. Don't let this bother you any more. We both hoped that Morrison would be captured, and we both did what we could to have it happen. If necessary, we can face the world together—and leave Burt City if we have to."
With an effort, McKenzie secured control of himself. Taking the girl's head in his hands, he drew it toward his and kissed her forehead.
"What do I care for myself, Lois?" he answered. "You are the one. I have built up an honored name as the best heritage I could leave you; and now to have a scoundrel like Weasel Morrison undo it all is hard—hard! But, as you say, right is right, and we may come out of this better than we imagine, or hope for. I feel that the crisis is at hand. I'm glad. For years I have felt that it was coming, and there is a satisfaction in being rid of uncertainties and knowing just where I stand. I am not a coward, Lois, dear, and I know that you are not. Take your seat and be calm. It is necessary for me to talk to Mr. Ruthven."
The girl went back to her chair obediently. Her face was white, but resolute. Ruthven felt out of place. Some jealously guarded family secret had been touched upon, a secret that meant much to father and daughter, and he was sorry to have been the one to bring it partly into the light.
"Weasel Morrison was captured in Dry Wash?" McKenzie asked calmly.
"Yes," Ruthven answered. "A detective named Hackett has been trailing Morrison for weeks. He followed him to Dry Wash and called on Jenkins after the anonymous letter had been received. I had something to do with the capture that followed."
"Had Morrison committed any robbery in Dry Wash?" The words came tensely, and both McKenzie and the girl hung breathlessly upon Ruthven's answer.
"No, he was captured before he had committed any robbery there."
'"Thank Heaven for that!" murmured the man, and Lois sank back in her chair in visible relief. "Were the burglar tools found?" McKenzie asked.
"Yes, the detective has them."
'T wish—I am going to give you my confidence, Mr. Ruthven, and I hope you will be as frank with me—I wish you would tell us why you did not come back with Durfee, Harrington, and the others from Bluffton. You went on with Seventeen, that carried the package for Barton. Had you a particular reason?"
"I saw Morrison's face at a car window. I knew the man, and decided to follow him."
"Knew him?" queried McKenzie incredulously.
Ruthven told how he had encountered the Weasel in the Catskills. He went into the robbery there at some length, but carefully guarded the name of his former classmate, Howard Millyar. McKenzie and Lois read into this account something that struck a responsive chord in their own bosoms. Ruthven could see that by the swift, significant glances they exchanged.
"If you could do so much to protect a friend who was almost guilty," said McKenzie, "I am sure you will befriend me, innocent as I am and entirely a victim of circumstances. For you, Mr. Ruthven, I am going to tear in pieces the veil of mystery surrounding that express package. It goes deep; but all will come out, and I want you to have the right of it—for Lois' sake, even more than for my own." He turned to his daughter. "Please get that letter and the telegram, Lois," he requested.
The girl arose and went into another room. Ruthven fidgeted in his chair. He was uneasy, and yet he was deeply interested and curious. In what way was McKenzie concerned with the mystery of that Barton shipment? And how was Weasel Morrison involved? He was asking himself these questions when Lois returned with two sheets of paper, one white and the other yellow. With a steady hand McKenzie took them from her.