CHAPTER XXXTHE LETTER IN THE DESK
Shortly after Sunday morning breakfast, Hutch had a private talk in his room with one of the two bell hops of the hotel, following which he complacently strolled down to the veranda, where, lounging in a comfortable chair, he presently saw Tom Locke come forth and depart on his way to church. When the pitcher had vanished, the man rose and returned to his room.
In less than fifteen minutes there came a light, nervous tap on the door, and, at Hutchinson’s invitation to enter, the bell boy, looking a trifle pale, glided in.
“Well, did you get the pass-key?” questioned the manager.
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy; “I slipped it off the hook when the clerk wasn’t looking, but if I’m caught I’ll be in a peck of trouble. I wouldn’t do this, only—”
“Only you need the tenner I offered. Here it is.”
He passed over a ten-dollar bill, which the boy took with a hand that was a trifle unsteady.
“Now, go ahead down the corridor, and open the door when nobody’s looking, but don’t act so sneaky that you’ll be suspected if some guest should see you,” ordered Hutchinson. “Leave the door ajar a bit. The chambermaid for this floor is working at the front of the house, isn’t she?”
“Yep; she was in Number Eleven when I come up. If I’m caught—”
“Quit that, and get a move on. When I come out, I’ll close the door. You can lock it afterward. Stir yourself now.”
A few minutes later, stepping almost as lightly as a cat, Hutchinson left his own room, and moved down the corridor until, at the far end, he saw the door of Number Twenty-two, which was Tom Locke’s room, standing the least bit ajar. In a moment he had passed inside, closed the door quietly, and shot the safety bolt.
The room had not been made up, but it was the maid’s rule to take care of the front of the house first, and Hutch was not particularly fearful of interruption. If she should come, she would find the door bolted, and, unless she had seen him go out, doubtless she would think Locke still there.
Hutchinson wasted no time. Testing the desk, he found it locked, whereupon he produced a huge bunch of keys, muttering:
“If one of these won’t do it, I’ll have to break it open. I’m going into it now, anyhow.”
Selecting the keys most likely to fit such a lock, he found that the fourth one tried served his purpose. The bolt clicked, and he opened the lid. Although he was moving swiftly, apparently he was still as cool and unagitated as Locke might have been himself while opening the desk with the proper key, which the pitcher carried in his pocket.
Immediately on lowering the lid of the desk, Hutchinson’s eyes discovered something that gave him a feeling of satisfaction. It was an unfinished letter, written on the paper of the hotel, pushed back and left lying under the pigeonholes.
“This ought to tell me something,” muttered the man. “It’s a letter the fellow hasn’t found time to finish, and, at least, it will furnish the needed specimen of his handwriting.”
In the most informal way, without giving the full name and address of the person for whom it was intended, the letter began: “My dear Grandall;” and went on to give an account of the experiences of the writer since his arrival in Kingsbridge.
The chirography was strong and manly, and extremely easy to read, although not at all of the “copper-plate” variety.
Hutchinson, running through the letter swiftly in search of the proof he desired, gave little heed to the quaintly humorous description of the pulp-mill town, “baseball batty”; and he skimmed through the somewhat graphic, self-chaffing account of the first game pitched by the writer, in which, as he laughingly confessed, he began with “a combination attack of stage fright and buck fever.” These paragraphs, however, he perused without missing a word:
As I say, we have a good team, and I think it should be a winning one if our manager is on the square and wants it to win. For some reason I do not trust the man.At our first meeting I was seized by a powerful instinctive feeling of dislike and distrust. He is cold as a fish and bloodless as a stone, with a voice as flat and monotonous as the Desert of Sahara, and his frosty, unfeeling eye is not the eye of an honest man.He does not belong in Kingsbridge, but has been hired, like the players on the team, and I should say that he is a person who stands ready to sell himself at any time for a price.If it should happen that, near the close of the season, Kingsbridge stands between Bancroft and championship honors, Bancroft will cop the pennant easily enough by dickering on the “q. t.” with Mr. Robert Hutchinson—or I’m away off my trolley.
As I say, we have a good team, and I think it should be a winning one if our manager is on the square and wants it to win. For some reason I do not trust the man.
At our first meeting I was seized by a powerful instinctive feeling of dislike and distrust. He is cold as a fish and bloodless as a stone, with a voice as flat and monotonous as the Desert of Sahara, and his frosty, unfeeling eye is not the eye of an honest man.
He does not belong in Kingsbridge, but has been hired, like the players on the team, and I should say that he is a person who stands ready to sell himself at any time for a price.
If it should happen that, near the close of the season, Kingsbridge stands between Bancroft and championship honors, Bancroft will cop the pennant easily enough by dickering on the “q. t.” with Mr. Robert Hutchinson—or I’m away off my trolley.
It was characteristic of the man reading the letter that he did not show his rage by flushing. Hisnose, however, became a livid, sickly white, and his thin lips were pressed somewhat more closely together, causing his mouth to resemble a straight, colorless scar. His face was that of a most dangerous man who would strike at an enemy’s back in the dark.
There were other paragraphs that Hutchinson read without skipping a line:
Oh, by the way, old fellow, I have met the most charming girl it has ever been my good luck to run across. I’m not going to try to describe her, because I simply lack command of language to do so, and by this confession alone you can see that she has me going some.Her name is Janet Harting, and she is the daughter of a hard-shell parson whose pet aversion is baseball—a man who, according to report, believes all baseball players must be either children, fools, or ruffians.Janet, however, has attended boarding school, and she’s a thoroughbred fan, though her father raises such a rumpus about it that she doesn’t get out to many games.Benton King, son of the man who has metamorphosed Kingsbridge from a four-corners settlement into a hustling, rip-roaring young city-to-be, is mightily interested in Miss Janet. Judging by appearances, she is not exactly averse to his attentions, which, considering his prospects and the fact that he seems to have anything around here in the eligible-young-man line left at the post, is no source for wonderment.Sometimes I think I’d like to see if I couldn’t give him a run for his money, but—well, you know how I’m situated, and—what’s the use!
Oh, by the way, old fellow, I have met the most charming girl it has ever been my good luck to run across. I’m not going to try to describe her, because I simply lack command of language to do so, and by this confession alone you can see that she has me going some.
Her name is Janet Harting, and she is the daughter of a hard-shell parson whose pet aversion is baseball—a man who, according to report, believes all baseball players must be either children, fools, or ruffians.
Janet, however, has attended boarding school, and she’s a thoroughbred fan, though her father raises such a rumpus about it that she doesn’t get out to many games.
Benton King, son of the man who has metamorphosed Kingsbridge from a four-corners settlement into a hustling, rip-roaring young city-to-be, is mightily interested in Miss Janet. Judging by appearances, she is not exactly averse to his attentions, which, considering his prospects and the fact that he seems to have anything around here in the eligible-young-man line left at the post, is no source for wonderment.
Sometimes I think I’d like to see if I couldn’t give him a run for his money, but—well, you know how I’m situated, and—what’s the use!
“Not a bit of use, young man—not a bit,” muttered Bob Hutchinson. “When I get throughwith you, it isn’t likely you’ll have a reputation that’ll make you particularly attractive to a discriminating young lady.”
Hutchinson was much disappointed when he came to the abrupt breaking off of the unfinished letter in the middle of the last page, and failed to find anything in it that would prove that Locke and Hazelton of Princeton were one and the same.
He decided at once to purloin the final page, leaving the others as he had found them. He would relock the desk when he departed from the room, and Locke, missing the final sheet, might fancy that somehow it had slipped from the others and been tossed into the near-by wastebasket, to be carried off by the maid.
In one of the pigeonholes were two letters. Both were addressed on the envelopes to “Mr. Tom Locke.” The first one opened contained only the post-card picture of a strikingly pretty young girl, who was laughingly exhibiting some fetching dimples. Across the bottom of the picture was written: “To ‘Big Bub,’ with love, from ‘Tid.’”
A look of understanding drifted across Hutchinson’s face as he gazed at the picture, and, returning it to the envelope, he observed:
“So that’s how you’re ‘situated,’ Mr. Tom Locke; that’s the reason why you are refrainingfrom trying to give King a run for his money with the parson’s daughter. If you were going to hang around this town long enough, I’ll guarantee you would forget about ‘Tid’ and make an effort to get into the running, just the same. It may be lucky for King that you’ll be going away very soon.”
He returned the picture to the pigeonhole, and investigated the contents of the other letter, consisting of a single sheet of paper, on which a brief note had apparently been scrawled with much haste.
The handwriting was masculine, and there was no date line to tell from whence it had come, but the first two words were enough to give Hutchinson considerable satisfaction. They were: “Dear Hazelton.” With some trouble, the manager deciphered what followed:
Don’t worry any more about the Kernell case. Wyloft & Pettengall have informed me that it will surely be settled out of court. I’ll have further information from them in a few days, but I’m sure there’ll be no necessity for you to come back here until you get through with your baseball job.Hope you make good up there in the bush, though you were afraid when you left that your arm had lost some of its cunning. Let me know what success you are having.Ever yours,Grandall.
Don’t worry any more about the Kernell case. Wyloft & Pettengall have informed me that it will surely be settled out of court. I’ll have further information from them in a few days, but I’m sure there’ll be no necessity for you to come back here until you get through with your baseball job.
Hope you make good up there in the bush, though you were afraid when you left that your arm had lost some of its cunning. Let me know what success you are having.
Ever yours,
Grandall.
“Ah!” breathed Bob Hutchinson. “As proof, I think this should satisfy Riley. The envelopeis addressed to ‘Tom Locke,’ but the writer calls him Hazelton in the message. That settles it. I don’t need the envelope, but I think I’ll keep its contents for Riley’s eyes. Now, we can go ahead without hesitation, and sink the harpoon to the hilt.”