Moosemeadows/Chapter 11
XI
TOM DEBLORE sounded not only light-hearted, but light-headed, during supper. My mood was not quite in sympathy with his. Far from it. I was tired, nerves and spirit and body. I was glad to have the murderer under the sod, of course; but Tom's merry chatter struck me as being very far out of place and time. I am sure that Sol felt the same way about it, for he did not once crack a smile. It seemed to me that the least Tom might do, under the circumstances, was show a decent sense of shame for his recent exhibition of funk. His silly chatter and merry twinklings of the eyes impressed me as being immodest and ill bred.
He took a turn the other way, toward the end of the meal. After a silence of several minutes he Suddenly put out a hand and grabbed me by the left wrist. He leaned toward me.
"Are you quite certain that this is so?" he asked. "Sure of the man, and sure that he is dead?"
"It is the man who pretended to be a peddler, and he is dead and buried," I answered.
"Puckered eyebrow, scarred forehead, black eyes?"
"Yes, everything. I buried him as I found him."
"Had he a crooked finger on his left hand?"
"I've never seen his left hand. It was in a bandage. Don't be a fool! You've been drinking."
"One can't be too sure, in a case of this kind. We must make sure."
He pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. "Sol, you keep an eye on the poor fool upstairs," he said. "Give him a dose of quinine. Giddy, you come with me. Light a lantern, Amy."
"What's the great idea?" I asked.
"I'm going to see the grave," he replied. "One can't be too sure."
I lost my grip on my temper at that. I told him that he could go and look at the grave as often as he liked, by night or by day, but that he would go alone, as far I was concerned. I told him, without picking my words to save his feelings, that I had been out and active, in his questionable interests, while he had been sitting at home, helpless with terror.
"I have stood the brunt of all this murderous, mysterious, dirty family affair of yours—the dogs and I," I concluded. "You have been useless. I have shot and been shot at, and now you doubt my word. But for me—but let that go! Lion is worth ten of you, for intelligence as well as courage. You must be either mad or a fool!"
He heard me out patiently. "Much of what you say is true, Giddy," he replied. "But I'm an old man, and your friend, and you mustn't be too hard on me. I want you to know everything, for I'm sure that you'll then understand. You have saved me, I do believe, and shown unwavering courage and resource, as was only to be expected. Yet again I must ask you to be patient with me a little longer."
I sighed. "Come along," I said. "I'll carry the lantern."
What else could I do? The old man's mildness was at once pitiful and impressive. There was no doubting his sincerity.
We walked the whole way in silence. The rain had ceased, and the sky was clearing slowly, unveiling pale stars one by one. I halted in the centre of the wide circle of ashes and charcoal and set down the lantern.
"Here is the grave," I said. "I tried to hide it."
Tom stood beside me and gazed down at the ashes at our feet.
"That a dead man lies there I do not doubt for a moment," he said. "It is the identity of the dead man that I must make sure of."
"But you know who he is," I said.
"I think I do, Giddy. I must be absolutely sure."
"You would dig up your brother?"
"That is the question. Have patience with me, Giddy—for a little longer. The thing is vital to my peace of mind. Where are the tools you dug with?"
I retrieved pick and spade from where I had flung them. I ceased to question and protest. What was the use? I was tired and my bewilderment was greater than ever. We worked in silence, scraping ashes aside, lifting rocks aside and displacing the loose soil.
"There you are," I said, at last. "Whoever it is, I hope to heaven it's the person you think it is"; and I sat down on the edge of the hole and lit a cigarette.
Tom lay flat, lowered the lantern in one hand and turned back a corner of the blanket with the other. Thus he lay, silent and motionless, for fully half a minute. Then he replaced the blanket, drew up the lantern and raised himself to his knees.
"Thank God!" he said; and if ever a man meant it, Tom Deblore did.
"Is it your brother?" I asked.
"No. It is as I feared when you mentioned the scar, and as I hoped when you reported his death. It is not Henry."
"But old Glashner thinks he is Henry."
"Ruben did not know the other. Henry was the only bad man he knew."
"But"
"He would deceive Ruben, of course—pretend that he was Henry come back for the treasure. It would not be difficult. He had heard of my brother, and of the rumor of a treasure. He had heard of Henry's terrible record and black name. He and I were once friends—damn him! Later, we became enemies. Henry? Henry Deblore was a bungler, a child, an amateur, compared to that man. He was clever as sin. He was sin. And he had power. Men feared him, thousands of men. And he had great wealth. I fled for my life. He must have lost his money."
"But your first thought was of your brother, when you heard of the attempt on my life."
"True. That was the logical suspicion, though I have thought for years that Henry must be dead. The truth struck me when you spoke of the scar and the black eyes. He hated me, but he was practical. He never risked power to indulge hate. He must have lost everything, to have come all this distance to indulge an old hate—for he was practical, you know. And he wanted money, it seems, the legendary treasure. Even if it were real, it would be no more than chickenfeed to that man. He must have been down and out. But I knew that if he were here he would kill—that my death and a dozen more would not be enough to appease his rage and hate. He would not leave one stone of the old house upon another. He would devastate the country."
"But the Jeanbards? Rose Jeanbard warned me. She must have thought he was Henry."
"She would, if she thought anything bad of him, just as Ruben Glashner accepted him as Henry. But he isn't Henry. He is one who robbed in millions and murdered in thousands; and there he lies—harmless."
"I laid him there," I said; and I told him of my two hysterical shots at the shaking alder beside the moosemeadow, and of the old peddler who got Rose Jeanbard to dress his wounded hand, and of how the terrible one had died of blood-poisoning from that wound.
We replaced the earth and the mossy stones and burned more brush on and around the grave. Tom Deblore worked as if he were to be paid for the job and whistled as he worked. On the way home and in the kitchen after our arrival, he told a queer story.