“And now,” Val cut in, “suppose we just forget the whole matter. Will you please let me have that!”
“Rupert, don’t let him go all modest on us now,” urged the demon sister. “One retiring violet in the family is enough.”
“And who is the violet? Your charming self?” inquired Holmes.
“No.” Ricky smiled pleasantly. “Only Mr. Creighton might be interested in the contents of Bluebeard’s Chamber. What do you think, Rupert?”
At that audacious hint, Val remembered the night of the storm and Ricky’s strange attitude then.
“So Rupert’s the missing author,” he commented lightly.
“Well, well, well.”
Charity’s indulgent smile faded, and Holmes, suddenly alert, leaned forward. Rupert stared at Val for a long moment, his face blank. Was he going to retire behind his wall of reserve from which their venture underground had routed him? Or was he going to remain the very human person who had spent eight hours of every day at his brother’s beck and call for the past few weeks?
“Regular Charlie Chan, aren’t you?” he asked mildly.
Val’s sigh of relief was echoed by Ricky. “Thanks—so much,” Val replied humbly in the well-known manner of the famous detective Rupert had likened him to.
“Then we are right?” asked Ricky.
Rupert’s eyebrows slid upward. “You seemed too sure to be in doubt,” he commented.
“Well, I was sure at times. But then no one can ever be really sure of anything about you,” she admitted frankly.
“But why—“ protested Charity.
“Why didn’t I spread the glad tidings that I was turning out the great American novel?” he asked. “I don’t know. Perhaps I am a violet—no?” He looked pained at Ricky’s snort of dissent. “Or perhaps I just don’t like to talk about things which may never come true. When I didn’t hear from Lever, I thought that my worst forebodings were realized and that my scribbling was worthless. But you know,” he paused to fill his pipe, “writing is more or less like the drug habit. I’ve told stories all my life, and I found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my disappointment. As for talking about it—well, how much has Val ever said about these?” He ruffled the pages of the note-book provokingly.
“Nothing. And you would never have seen those if I could have prevented it,” his brother replied. “Those are for my private satisfaction only.”
“Two geniuses in one family.” Ricky rolled her eyes heavenward. “This is almost too, too much!”
“Jeems,” Val ordered, “you’re the nearest. Can’t you make her shut up?”
“Just let him try,” said his sister sweetly. The swamper grinned but made no move to stir from his chair.
Jeems had become as much a part of Pirate’s Haven as the Luck, which Val could see from his cot glimmering dully in its niche in the Long Hall. The swamper’s confinement in the sick-room had paled his heavy tan and he had lost the sullen frown which had made him appear so old and bitter. Now, dressed in a pair of Val’s white slacks and a shirt from his wardrobe, Jeems was as much at ease in his surroundings as Rupert or Holmes.
It had been Jeems who had saved Ricky and Val on that night of terror when they had been trapped in the secret ways of their private ancestors. Sam Two had trailed Ricky to the garden and had witnessed their entering the tunnel. But fear of the dark unknown had kept him from venturing in after them. So he had lingered there long enough to see the invaders come out and take to the river.
Catching some words of theirs about a cave-in, he had gone pelting off to Rupert with the story.
The investigating party from the levee had discovered to their horror, the passage choked for half its length. They were making a futile and dangerous attempt to clear it when Jeems appeared on the scene. Letty-Lou having given him a garbled account of events, he had staggered from his bed in an effort to reach Rupert. He alone knew the underground ways as well as he knew the garden. And so once getting Rupert’s attention, he had set them to work in the cellar cutting through to the one passage which paralleled the foundation walls.
In the weeks which followed their emergence from the threatened tomb, the swamper had unobtrusively slipped into a place in the household. While Val was frightening his family by indulging in a bout of fever to complicate his injuries, Jeems was proving himself a tower of strength and a person to be relied upon. Even Lucy had once asked his opinion on the importance of a fire in the hall, and with that his position was assured.
Of the invaders they had heard or seen no more, although the police had visited Pirate’s Haven on two separate occasions, interviewing each and every member of the household. They had also made a half-hearted attempt to search the swamp. But for all the evidence they found, Ricky and Val might have been merely indulging in an over-vivid dream. Save that the Luck hung again in the Long Hall.
“Seriously, though,” Holmes drew Val’s thoughts out of the past, “these are worth-while. Would you mind if I showed them to a friend of mine who might be interested?” Since Rupert had already nodded and Charity had handed him the note-book, Val decided that he could hardly raise a protest.
“Rupert,” Charity glanced at him, “are you going to see Creighton?”
“Since all has been discovered,” he misquoted, “I suppose dial that is all mere is left for me to do.”
“Then you had better do it today; he’s planning to leave for the North tonight,” she informed turn.
Rupert came to life. For all his pose of unconcern, he was excited. In the long days Val had been tied to the cot hurriedly set up in a comer of the drawing-room on the night of the rescue—it had been thought wiser to move him no farther than necessary—he had found again the real Rupert they had known of old. There was little he could conceal from his younger brother now—or so Val thought.
“Sam has the convertible,” Rupert said. “There’s something wrong with the brakes and I told him to take it to town and have it looked over. Goodness only knows what time he’ll be back.”
“See here, Ralestone,” Holmes looked at his wristwatch, “I’ve the car I rented here with me. Let me drive you in. Charity has to go, anyway, and see about sending off those sketches of hers.”
“Oh, but we were going together,” protested Ricky. “I have some shopping to do.”
“Very simple,” Val suggested. “Why don’t you all go?”
“But that would leave you alone.” Rupert shook his head.
“No. There’s Jeems.”
“I don’t know,” Rupert hesitated doubtfully.
“It doesn’t require more than one person to wait on me at present,” Val said firmly. “Now all of you go. But remember, I shall expect the Greeks to return bearing gifts.”
Holmes saluted. “Right you are, my hearty. Well, ladies, the chariot awaits without.”
In spite of their protests, Val at last got rid of them.
Since he had a project of his own, he was only too glad to see the last of his oversolicitous family for awhile.
Val had never been able to understand why broken ribs or a fractured collar-bone should chain one to the bed. And since he had recovered from his wrenched back he was eager to be up and around. In private, with the protesting assistance of Sam Two, he had made a pilgrimage across the room and back. And now it was his full intention to be seated on the terrace when the family came home.
It was Lucy of all people who aided fortune to give him his opportunity.
“Mistuh Val,” she announced from the doorway as the sound of the car pulling out of the drive signaled the departure of the city-bound party, “them light’s out agin.”
“Another fuse gone? That’s the second this week. Who’s been playing games?” he asked.
“This no-‘count!” She dragged out of hiding from behind her voluminous skirts her second son, a infant who rejoiced in the name of Gustavus Adolphus and was generally called “Doff.” At that moment he was sobbing noisily and eyeing Val as if the boy were the Grand High Executioner of Tartary. “Yo’ tell Mistuh Val what yos doin’!” commanded his mother, emphasizing her order with a shake.
“Ain’t done nothin’,” wailed Doff. “Sam give me a nickle an’say. ‘Le’s hab fun.’ I puts the nickle in HI’ hole, then Mammy catched me.”
“Doff seems to be the victim, Lucy,” Val observed.
“Where’s Sam?”
“Don’ know. But I’m a-goin’ to fin’ out!” she stated with ominous determination. “How I’m a-goin’ git ironin’ done when dere ain’t no heat fo’ de iron, I asks yo’?”
“There are some fuses in the pantry and Jeems will put one in for you,” Val promised.