The crooked cross

As a rule the first of June always found Bartley out of the city. With the coming of the first days of spring, he would begin to grow restless. One would find upon the large rosewood desk in his library various fishing flies, and maps showing far-off lakes and streams. For a while he would even drop his books and pamphlets which told of the 18th century of France, and pore over various guides of the woods and mountains; and then when June arrived, we would take the big car and go wandering forth in search of rest.

But the first of June had come and gone, and it was now the middle of the month. What was worse, there did not seem to be the slightest chance that we could get away for many weeks to come. Down in the Court House a sensational murder trial was slowly dragging itself out to a conclusion—a conclusion not yet in sight. It was this trial which was keeping us in the city, for Bartley's testimony was the hope upon which the defense leaned for an acquittal.

The stay in the city might have been endured if it had not been for the weather. For over a week we had sweltered under the warmest heat spell of many a year. Each morning I rose with but one thought in my mind—that there would be a breeze. But every day the thermometer went a few degrees higher than the day before—while each evening the list of those overcome by the heat grew larger. Bartley, far more of a philosopher than myself, at my constant complaint that it was warm, suggested that I follow the example of Trouble, our Airedale, who retired each morning to the cellar to spend the day.

One evening toward the end of the third week in June I entered Bartley's house in Gramercy Square long after our usual dinner hour. Going to the dining room, I found that Bartley had eaten several hours before. Rance, our old colored man, served me with the air of one who felt insulted over the fact my delay had caused his well-cooked dinner to grow cold. It was not until I was drinking my coffee that he unbent so far as to inform me that Bartley wished to see me in the library.

Bartley's library had once been called the most distinctive room in the city. When he had remodeled the house, he had torn away all the partitions to make one huge room. It ran across the entire front of the house, and had one of the largest fireplaces I have ever seen. The walls were covered with French prints—not copies, but the rare originals of the eighteenth century. Boucher, Fragonard, and their contemporaries covered three of the walls, while the fourth was left for the Belgian—Rops—whose devilish suggestiveness leered at one in over sixty etchings.

Below the etchings ran the bookcases, filled with the books which Bartley loved; not ordinary books, but the rare things upon crime and science, philosophy and psychology—the cream of a lifetime of collecting. And then came the long rows of thin volumes, with their dark red covers—the most extensive collection in the country, of the rare pamphlets and memoirs of the years before the French Revolution.

Bartley was seated by his large rosewood desk, whose surface was covered with books and papers. He even looked cool in his white silk suit, and he smiled when I mentioned the heat. With that he went back to the book he was reading, while I picked up the evening paper and went over to an easy chair. There was nothing of importance in the paper, though the murder trial filled many columns—columns of the usual sob stuff, but with little information. In disgust, I threw the paper aside just as Bartley spoke.

“Pelt,” he said, “I received a letter this morning from Carter. He is very eager to have us come up and visit him.”

I was rather surprised at this, for I had thought Carter was on the other side of the water. Seeing my astonishment, Bartley continued:

“George writes me that his chief has given him the summer to rest in. He is at the old home, and wants us to spend part of the summer with him.”

Carter's father had made a fortune out of some so-called cure for rheumatism. It is much to be doubted if it ever cured any one, but it did result in George receiving a large sum of money when his father died. But money meant little to Carter, while adventure promised a great deal more. In some manner, Carter got into the Secret Service, where he surprised those who looked upon him as being only a rich man's son, by becoming the best man his chief had. Though there was at least fifteen years of difference in their ages, Bartley and he were the warmest of friends. I was thinking of this as Bartley's voice interrupted my thoughts.

“I have been thinking, Pelt, that there is not the slightest reason in the world for your staying in the city. I can not get away until after I have testified in the trial; and the way it looks now, only the Lord Himself knows when that will be. But it is absurd for you to stay in the city while it is so warm. Why don't you take the small car and the dog and go to Carter's? I will come as soon as I can.”

Carter's home was in what has often been called the most beautiful village in the state of New York. It lay under the shadow of a range of hills, with a lake at the front door. And the lawn of Carter's house fronted the lake. But though the suggestion appealed to me, still I did not like the idea of leaving Bartley alone in the city; I said as much, only to have him retort:

“That's foolish, Pelt. Your hanging around here can do no good. And there is another reason why I want you to go up. Carter writes me that James Ranville is his guest; and I want you to meet him.”

Seeing my blank look, he enlightened me. Ranville, it seemed, was an inspector from Scotland Yard who was visiting in America. During the war he and Carter had worked together on several cases, and he had crossed the ocean to visit his friend. Bartley informed me that Ranville was one of the best men Scotland Yard had, and urged strongly that I follow his suggestion and run up to Carter's. And so, though I protested rather keenly that I did not wish to run away, at last I agreed to go the next morning; and when I said this, he returned to his book.

Four o'clock the next afternoon found me driving down the wide, tree-lined street of Carter's town. It had been an easy drive across the central part of the state, though Trouble, the Airedale, protested several times that he thought we had driven far enough. The last seventy-five miles—miles which led through peaceful valleys and along the side of shady mountains—had passed quickly. Though it was warm, yet from the hills had come a slight breeze, and the air was heavy with the scent of the fields and woods.

As I drove slowly down the main street, I could see that the village was a wealthy one, and quite a summer place. White, colonial houses in the midst of wide lawns were set far back from the street. The streets were lined with huge elm trees, whose branches met in a green arch above my head. The cars that I passed were expensive ones, and the few people I saw looked as though they not only had plenty of leisure, but all the money they could use.

Carter's place was down by the lake, and the directions which Bartley had given me were so complete that I had no trouble in finding it. A green hedge hid the lawn from the street, and large trees shaded the house—a house whose red-shingled top I could see ahead of me. I turned in the drive which ran between two rows of roses—roses red as flame in the summer sun—and stopped the car in front of the house. It fronted a lawn which ended at the lake. As the car stopped, a man ran down the steps to greet me; it was Carter.

Any one who saw him would have decided that he had never done a stroke of work in his life. His silk suit was of wonderful texture. The fit was that which only the most expensive tailor can give, and the tie which floated in the breeze was very far from being sedate. His whole appearance was that of a young man who found life very good, and the task of spending his money rather easy. The blond hair was closely cut, and the little mustache gave him rather an affected look. No one seeing Carter for the first time would have guessed his reputation in the Secret Service.

He greeted me with evident pleasure and then asked in surprise where Bartley might be, expressing his regrets when I told him why I had come alone. Then, telling me to leave my things in the car and that his man would take them to my room, he whistled to the dog and we went to the veranda. It ran across the front of the house—a veranda with easy chairs and bright porch hammocks. Here he proposed that I rest until he had brought me out a drink, and with that he went into the house.

For a while I studied the view before me. A few yards away the green grass of the lawn ended at the waters of the lake. It was not a small lake, and I judged it must be several miles to the other shore. Far away I could see the mountains, their summits dark and cool against the blue sky. Under the slight breeze the waters of the lake lapped the shore with a gentle murmur, and the sound of the exhaust of a motor boat came faintly to my ears. Not only was it beautiful but also restful, and I gave a contended grin as I thought of the hot city I had left.

Carter returned in a few moments with a tray—a tray which had three tall glasses in which ice tinkled with a pleasing sound. He was not alone, for with him was a tall man whom I judged must have been around forty-five—a man who carried himself with an air of distinction, and whose hair had begun to turn white. When they reached my side, Carter introduced him as his friend Ranville, the inspector from Scotland Yard.

Ranville was not the usual blond Saxon, nor for that matter did his speech have much of an English accent. A glance at his well-knit frame and his brick-red face told that he spent much of his time in the open air. He took my hand with a firm clasp and expressed his regrets that Bartley had been unable to come with me. There was something very likable about the man, and there were the little lines around his lips which showed that he had a sense of humor.

Sinking into our chairs, we slowly sipped our highballs, talking of this and that. The dog, glad at his release from the car, wandered about the yard, only to plunge at last into the waters of the lake. Then, as there came a long silence, Carter said:

“I will take you up to your room, Pelt. We are going out to dinner to-night. That is one reason I am sorry Bartley is not here.”

I turned an inquiring glance in his direction, and he gave a grin as he replied:

“You are going to meet a real highbrow for once, Pelt. We dine with Professor Henry Warren. You know this town is his birthplace.”

Though like every person who had read the newspapers during the last few months I knew of Henry Warren, I was rather surprised to hear we were to dine with him. Warren had just returned to America after a two years' absence in China. For many weeks before his return the papers had been asking if he were still alive. For months nothing had been heard from his expedition, and his sudden arrival in Hong Kong, after it had been announced that he had been killed by outlaws, had created some excitement.