The Forgotten Door (7 page)

“There are springs all around here. You say you crawled — from where?”

“It was from a sort of dark place.”

“You mean a cave?”

“It must have been. I hadn't realized till now — but there's no cave here.”

“Let's try higher up,” said Thomas, starting upward through a tangle of rhododendrons. “There seems to be a ledge …”

There was a ledge. And there was a break in the strata, marking what seemed to be a shallow cave behind the tangle. Near the mouth of it water trickled into a small pool.

“This is the place!” Little Jon cried. “I drank from the spring — see the marks of my hands? I woke up in there, where it's flat.”

They crawled inside. Thomas Bean took a flashlight from his knapsack and sent the beam slowly about. The cave was much larger than it had appeared from the entrance.

“There's been a fall of rock in here recently, Jon. Funny-looking stuff. Looks igneous — but only on one side.”

“Igneous?”

“Volcanic. But no volcano ever melted this.” He chipped experimentally with his hammer. “It's what we call metamorphic granite — old, old rock that's changing. And something has seared one side of it, a long time ago. I'll be jiggered!”

Thomas went farther back and straightened up. “This place is like the inside of a bottle. We've certainly found something — but don't ask me what. Think, Jon! Think about that door idea! Could this be part of it?”

“I — I don't know, sir. This place, it makes me feel sort of — tingly all over, as if something … but I can't remember.”

He was aware of Thomas Bean's rising excitement as he chipped off flakes of fallen rock and examined them. Finally Thomas thrust the pieces into his knapsack, and turned the light on his pocket watch. It was later than either of them had realized.

“Pshaw!” Thomas growled. “Hate to leave — but it'll be nearly dark when we get back, and there are things to do. We'll return first thing in the morning.”

They left reluctantly, their thoughts leaping as they talked of their discovery. As the shadows deepened in the forest, they fell silent and began to hurry. Little Jon led the way, following the doe's trail to the valley. At the fence he turned, skirting Gilby Pitts's land, and went through the woods to the creek.

He crossed the creek as before, though not until he had made sure that no one was around to see him.

The truck was several hundred yards around the bend ahead. They were in sight of it when Little Jon heard a car approaching. It was almost inaudible above the clatter of the creek, yet his sharp ears recognized the sound.

He clutched Thomas Bean's arm in sudden uneasiness. “Mr. Bush is coming,” he said. “I — I ought to hide.”

“There's no reason to. He's already met you. What makes you afraid?”

“I don't know. Something …”

There was no place to hide here. The creek fell away on their left, and on their right the rocky slope rose sharply. And suddenly the car with the star on the side was swinging around a curve.

It slowed as it came near them, and stopped. Gilby Pitts was sitting in the front with Anderson Bush.

“Howdy, Tom,” said Gilby, his eyes sliding interestedly over Little Jon. “Heard you had a visitor. This him?”

“Yes. We've been doing a bit of rock-hunting together. How are matters up at Holliday's?”

“Been tryin' to make a list of what's been took. Some pretty valuable things. The Doctor's pet target rifle — he paid over three hundred dollars for it. Then there's some expensive fishin' rods …” Gilby Pitts rubbed his chin over his high shoulder and leaned out of the car window, squinting downward. “Them boots …”

All at once Gilby was out of the car and stooping swiftly. Little Jon knew what was coming even before Gilby's clutching hand gave his trouser leg a jerk to expose the top of the boot. And he was aware of Thomas Bean's desperate thought,
If you'll just keep quiet, Jon, and not say a word, I'll handle this
.

Thomas said, “What's come over you, Gilby?”

“Them's the boots I seen at your house Saturday night,” Gilby Pitts said accusingly.

Thomas laughed. “What of it?”

“This kid was there all the time I was there! You never told me …”

“That we had a visitor? Why should I? Jon had had a hard day traveling, and we'd put him to bed. What's got into you, Gilby?”

“Them boots,” snapped Gilby. “Ever since I seen 'em there I been wonderin' where I seen 'em before. It's come to me. That wild boy was wearin' 'em!”

Thomas laughed again, but Gilby said hoarsely, “You been hiding 'im! You cut his hair an' changed his clothes, but you ain't changed his face. I'd know that peaky face anywhere! This here's the ornery little varmint that done the breakin' in and stealin'!”

“Gilby,” Thomas said quietly, but with an inner fury that only Little Jon was aware of. “Take your hands off Jon — and stop accusing him before I lose my temper.”

“Hold it!” ordered Anderson Bush, who had already stepped from the car and was standing, frowning, behind Gilby. “Mr. Pitts,” he said in his grating voice, “are you absolutely sure this is the same boy you saw the other day?”

“I got eyes!” snapped Gilby. “I'd know 'im anywhere!”

“You would be willing to swear to it?”

“On the Bible!” Gilby said emphatically.

“That's all I need to know.” Anderson Bush looked hard at Little Jon, and his eyes narrowed as he turned to Thomas. “Mr. Bean, I'm afraid you haven't been honest with me. You said this boy had never been in the mountains before, and that he arrived at your place Saturday night.”

“So I did.”

“Why is it he was seen over here Saturday morning?”

“Pshaw!” said Thomas. “This thing's getting ridiculous. Who knows what Gilby really saw over here?”

“I
know what I saw!” Gilby Pitts cried. “An'—
I know them boots!
”

“You see, Mr. Bean?” the deputy went on, his eyebrows raised. “I'm sure Mr. Pitts is a reliable witness. Those
are
very unusual boots the boy is wearing — and the boy himself is, well, different-looking. I'm sure I'd never forget either the boots or the boy, if I'd seen them before.”

“Look here,” said Thomas, his voice tighter, “this whole thing started because of a robbery that Jon couldn't possibly have had anything to do with. Are you accusing him of being a thief?”

“Mr. Bean,” replied Anderson Bush, with a sort of deadly patience, “I'm only an investigating officer looking for facts. I've run into some very peculiar facts that need an explanation. We're due for another talk, Mr. Bean, so I think you'd better go home and wait for me. I'll be right over as soon as I drop off Mr. Pitts.”

He Is Accused

I
T WAS NEARLY DARK
when they reached the house. Little Jon glimpsed Brooks and Sally running from the barn to meet them, and he could hear Rascal whining impatiently in the enclosure, eager to see him and yet reproachful at being left alone all day. He wished suddenly that he had managed to take Rascal with them. The big dog would have loved it. Maybe, tomorrow …

“Remember,” Thomas was saying, as he set the brakes and turned off the motor, “if Bush insists on asking you questions, let me think the answers before you tell him anything. He can't make us answer— only a court can do that. But I don't want him dragging us into court.”

“Hi, Dad!” Brooks called. “School's out today! Yow-ee!”

“Mommy said you'd gone rock-hunting,” Sally said eagerly, running ahead of Brooks. “Did you find any pretty stones?”

“A few. Where's your mother?”

“Here, Thomas,” said Mary Bean, appearing from around the side of the house. “What kept you so late?”

“Trouble,” Thomas said hastily. “We ran into Gilby and that deputy on the way back, and Gilby recognized Jon. Bush is on his way over to ask more questions. Keep Sally and Brooks in the kitchen. Jon, you might stay out of sight in the living room — but close enough to hear. I'll talk to Bush on the porch. Hurry — here he comes.”

It was a warm evening, and the windows had been opened. Little Jon, huddled in a chair in the darkened room, heard the deputy's feet on the porch, and Thomas Bean's polite voice offering him a seat.

“Would you care for some coffee, sir?” Thomas asked. “I think Mrs. Bean has a fresh pot ready.”

“No thanks,” came the deputy's grating reply. “I just want to talk to that boy. Will you get him out here, please?”

“I don't see any real reason to, Mr. Bush. I'll answer your questions.”

“Mr. Bean, by your own admission, you didn't see that boy until Saturday evening. How can you tell me what the boy was doing the rest of the day?”

“I know where he was,” Thomas said. “I know he's no thief, and I don't care to have him questioned about a matter that doesn't concern him.”

“You told me his parents are dead, Mr. Bean. Are you his legal guardian?”

“I have charge of him for the time being.”

“Then I gather you're
not
his legal guardian. Will you kindly tell me who is?”

Thomas stood up, and Little Jon could feel the rising anger in him.

“Mr. Bush, the only thing that concerns you is to clear up that theft. You're not going to clear it up by wasting your time here. There are other boys in this area you should be investigating.”

“Mr. Bean,” said Anderson Bush, in his deadly patient voice, “you're being very evasive. When people are afraid to answer questions, that means they have something to hide. What are you trying to hide, Mr. Bean?”

“I'm trying to protect an innocent boy who's had a very bad experience.”

Little Jon could almost see Anderson Bush shaking his head. “You're making a mistake, Mr. Bean. I've investigated all other possible suspects, and checked them out. This boy — this Jon O'Connor — is the only one left who could have done it. He was seen, under very strange circumstances, near the Holliday place early Saturday. He's small enough to have squeezed through that window, and there are prints in the dust that could have been made by his boots.”

The deputy paused, and went on slowly. “I realize how you feel, Mr. Bean. It's never pleasant to have anyone connected with you accused of a thing like this. But if it's his first offense, and all the stolen property can be recovered, we don't have to be too hard on him. If you'll just call that boy out here and let me talk to him, you'll save yourself some trouble.”

“No!” Thomas said firmly. “I'll not have him questioned! He had nothing to do with this!”

But Little Jon was already coming through the door. Thomas, he realized, could protect him no longer without making things worse than they were. He thrust his small hands into his pockets to hide their unsteadiness, and shook his head at Thomas Bean's silent urging to leave. How strange, he thought, looking intently at Anderson Bush, that people here would want to make life such an ugly sort of game. Somewhere, wherever he had come from, there couldn't be this ugliness, or any of these secret hates and desires that darkened everything …

“Now, Jon,” Anderson Bush was saying, with a friendliness that Little Jon knew was completely false, “I'm glad you decided to come out and clear this thing up. We don't like to see young fellows like you being sent to reform school. So, if you'll tell me where you put those things you took the other day …”

“Mr. Bush,” he said, “may I ask you a question, please?”

“You'd better start answering questions instead of asking them,” the deputy said testily.

“I only wanted to ask you where Mr. Macklin said his boys were Sunday afternoon.”

“You can't blame this on the Macklin boys. The whole family was in town all Saturday, at church the next morning, and at Blue Lake with friends all Sunday afternoon. I checked it.”

Little Jon turned to Thomas. “Mr. Bean, do you remember when Mr. Macklin rode by Monday, looking for his boys? Can you tell Mr. Bush what he said?”

“Let me think,” said Thomas. “H'mm. He said Tip and Lenny had skipped school and were out hunting that wild boy. Gilby Pitts had told him about it at church. He said —” Suddenly Thomas sat up and snapped his fingers. “I'd entirely forgotten it, but Angus said his boys were away all Sunday afternoon doing the same thing. That means Angus was lying if he said Tip and Lenny were with them at Blue Lake.”

In the darkness it was hard to see the deputy's face.

But his voice was cold as he spoke. “You have a very convenient memory, Mr. Bean. It proves nothing, and it doesn't explain what this boy — this Jon O'Connor as you call him — was doing when Gilby Pitts caught him Saturday. Just who
is
this boy, Mr. Bean? You've admitted you're not his guardian. Who brought him here — and why is he staying with you?”

“Blast your nosiness!” Thomas exploded. “He's the orphaned son of Captain James O'Connor of the Marines, who was killed in North Africa three months ago. The boy has lost his memory, and he was brought here by regular Marine channels because he needs a quiet place to recuperate. I happen to be O'Connor's friend, and his former commanding officer. Enough of that. The only thing that concerns you is the robbery. If you don't believe what I've told you about Macklin, you'd better go over there and have it out with him!”

“We'll all go over,” Anderson Bush snapped back. “Get in the car, you two.”

It was less than a half mile up the valley. The deputy drove grimly through the night. Little Jon could feel the coiled danger in him, and he wished Thomas hadn't lost his temper and told the lie. He loved Thomas for trying to protect him, but the lie was a mistake. There were old hates in Anderson Bush, ugly things of the past that made the man the way he was now. Little Jon wished the thoughts were not there to be seen, but they leaped out as strongly as if the deputy had shouted them aloud. Anderson Bush had been in trouble in the army, and he hated all officers because of it. Later there had been trouble over a son …