The Burglar and the Blizzard: A Christmas Story

VII VII McVay was left so long at the piano that he finally resorted to a series of discords in order to recall himself to Holland’s mind. His existence, if he had only realised the fact, was so completely forgotten that he might have made his escape with a good half hour to spare before either of the others appreciated that the music had ceased. Not knowing this, however, he did not dare stop his playing for an instant, until sheer physical fatigue interfered. It was at this point that the discords began, and brought Geoffrey into the hall. The disposal of McVay for the night was a question to which Geoffrey had given a great deal of thought. The cedar closet presented itself as a safe prison, but in the face of McVay’s repeated assertions that the air had barely sufficed to support him during his former occupancy, it looked like murder to insist. Geoffrey finally, when bed-time came, locked him in a dressing-room off his own room. The window—the room was on the third floor—gave on empty space, and against the only door he placed his own bed, so that escape seemed tolerably difficult. And to all other precautions, Geoffrey added his own wakefulness, although toward morning weariness triumphed over excitement and he fell asleep. He was waked by an insistent knocking at his door, and he heard his name called by Cecilia. He sprang up and found her standing in the hall. She was wrapped in her sable coat, but shivering from cold or fear. “There is some one getting into the house. I heard a window open and steps on the piazza, below my room. What can it be?” Geoffrey flung himself past her. The instinct of the hunter joined to the obstinacy of his nature maddened him at the notion of McVay’s escape. On the opposite side of the house there was a piazza and on the roof of this a neighbouring window opened. He threw it back and climbed out. The snow had stopped, and the moon was shining, paling a little before the approaching dawn. Geoffrey could see a figure stealing quickly across the snow. There was no question of its identity. His revolver, which he had snatched from under his pillow and brought with him, he at once levelled on the vanishing form; his finger was on the trigger, when he felt a hand on his arm. Leaning out of the window behind him the girl caught his arm. “Don’t fire,” she said. “Don’t you see it is Billy?” There was a pause—the fraction of a second, but momentous, for Geoffrey realised that all his threats to McVay had been idle, that with that touch on his arm he could not shoot. Nevertheless he raised his voice and shouted thunderously: “McVay!” The figure turned, hesitated, saw, perhaps, the gleam of the moon on steel and began to retrace his steps. Steadily with the revolver still upon him he moved back to the house. Under the piazza he stopped and waved his hand. “I’m afraid they got away from us, Holland. I did my best.” “There was a burglar then!” said the girl in the little whisper of recent fright. “By Heaven, he shall not trouble you,” returned Holland with more earnestness than seemed to be required. Then he left her and went down to meet McVay. “You were just about half a second ahead of a bullet,” he remarked, ushering him into the hall. To be caught and brought back is so ignominious a position that Geoffrey looked to see even McVay at a disadvantage, but looked in vain. The aspect worn was a particularly self-satisfied one. “I was aware I took a risk,” he answered; “I took it gladly for my sister’s sake.” “For your sister’s sake?” “Yes, and yours. Be honest, Holland, what could be so great a relief to you as to find I had disappeared. You are too narrow-minded, too honourable, you would say, to connive at it, but you would be delighted to know that you need not prosecute me.” “If I shot you, I should be saved the trouble of prosecuting.” “But at what a cost! I refer to my sister’s regard. No, no, the thing, if you had only been quick enough to see it, was for me to escape. It was a risk, of course, but a risk I gladly took for my sister’s sake. I would take longer ones for her.” “Do you mean that?” “Of course.” “Then take this revolver and go out and shoot yourself.” McVay looked very thoughtful. Then, he said gravely, “No, no, Holland. To take a risk is one thing,—to kill myself quite another. I have always had a strong prejudice against suicide. I think it a cowardly action. And it would be no help to you. She would not believe that I had committed suicide. She knows my views on the subject, and could imagine no motive. No, that would not do at all. I’m surprised at the suggestion. It is against my principles.” “Your principles!” Geoffrey sneered. Nevertheless, he was not a little altered in opinion. It had been something of a shock to him to find that he could not shoot at the critical instant. It had shaken his faith in himself. He began to doubt if he would be capable of sending the man to state’s prison when Cecilia besought his pity. His own limitations faced him. He was not the relentless judge he had supposed himself. Yet on the other hand, the remembrance of Vaughan and the other men he was representing held him to his idea of justice. “Sit down,” he said suddenly turning to McVay, “and write me out a list of everything you have stolen in this neighbourhood and where it is and how it may be obtained. Yes, I know it is difficult, but you had better try to do it for on the completeness of your list depends your only chance of avoiding the law. If I can return all properly, perhaps—I have a mine in Mexico, a hell on earth, where you can go if you prefer it to penal servitude. There won’t be much difference, except for the publicity of a trial. I’ve a man there who, when I give him his orders, would infinitely rather shoot you than take any risk of your getting away. Which will you have?” “Can you ask, Holland? Which will be easier for my sister?” “Sit down and write your list, then.” “An interesting occupation, mining,” observed McVay as he opened the portfolio. After this for a long time nothing was heard but the soft noise of the pencil and an occasional comment from the writer: “A rare piece that. I parted with it absurdly low, but the dealer was a connoisseur—appealed to my artistic side.” Things had gone on thus for perhaps an hour when a step sounded outside and the door bell rang. Both men jumped to their feet. “My God, Holland,” said McVay, “if that is the police, keep your wits about you or we are lost.” It was a revelation to Geoffrey to find how completely, as his alarm showed, he had cast in his interests with McVay’s. He stepped forward in silence and opened the door. Not the police, but a man in plain clothes was standing there. “I’m glad to see you safe, Mr. Holland,” he said. “There has been great anxiety felt for your safety. I am a detective working on the Vaughan and Marheim cases. I got word to come and look you up as you did not get back to the gardener’s cottage the night before last.” “The snow detained me,” said Geoffrey slowly. “Come in, come in, friend,” said McVay briskly. “You must be cold.” It speaks well for the professional eye that the detective, after studying McVay for an instant, asked: “I did not catch this gentleman’s name. Who is he?” There was a barely perceptible pause. Then Geoffrey answered coolly: “That is the man you are after.” “Are you crazy, Holland?” shouted McVay. “What, the Vaughan burglar? You caught him without assistance?” Envy and admiration struggled on the detective’s countenance. “I must congratulate you, sir.” Geoffrey allowed himself the luxury of a groan. “You needn’t,” he said; “I am no subject for congratulation. I can’t even prosecute him, confound him, for several reasons. We were at school together, and I can take no steps in the matter.” “But I can,” said the detective; “indeed it is my duty to.” “No,” said Geoffrey, “nor can you. This man cannot be sent to prison. Yes, I know, it is compounding a felony. Well, sit down, and we’ll compound it.” “I could not agree to anything of the kind,” said the detective. “I don’t see exactly what you can do about it.” Geoffrey was deliberate and very polite. “For reasons which I can’t explain, but which you would appreciate, leave me no choice. I have to save this man from jail. If you intend to work against me, I shall simply let him escape at once. Don’t draw your revolver, please. I prefer to be the only person with a weapon in my hand. He has made a list of all the things he has stolen, and I shall see that they are returned to their owners at any cost. Will you undertake to get him safely to a mine I own in Mexico? Once there he can’t get away. It is forty-five miles from a railway. If you accomplish this, I will give you ten thousand to make up for the reward you didn’t get,—five thousand down, and five thousand at the end of a year.” “I don’t know what to say,” said the man. “It sounds like a bribe.” “It is,” said Geoffrey coolly. “I never received such a proposition,” returned the man. “That scheme won’t do, Holland,” put in McVay. “Can’t you see it lays you open to blackmail?” “From you?” said Geoffrey. “I had thought of that, but you can’t blackmail me at La Santa Anna, and if you get away and come close enough to blackmail me, I’ll put you in prison without a moment’s hesitation. I shall be in a position by that time to take care of the feelings of the other people concerned.” “You don’t understand me,” answered McVay; “I meant blackmail from this man.” “Oh,” said Geoffrey civilly, “I am convinced he is not a blackmailer. And besides, he won’t get his second five thousand for a year, and as I was saying to you, after a year I don’t so much mind having the whole thing known. My reputation will stand it, I think, if yours and his will.” “I’m no blackmailer,” said this detective. “If I accept, I’ll be on the square.” “If you do, let me offer you a piece of advice,” observed Geoffrey, “and that is not to take your eye off that man for a single instant. He is a slippery customer, and you run a fair chance of not seeing my money at all, if you give him the smallest loophole.” The detective considered McVay carefully from head to foot. Then he said gravely: “Is there any way of getting to this place of yours by water? I don’t see my way to taking this customer in a Pullman car. If he chooses to slip overboard from a boat, why no one would be any the worse, unless maybe the sharks.” “Very true,” agreed Geoffrey amiably. “Fortunately you can get a steamer in New York.” It soon became apparent that the detective failed to see any good reason for declining so advantageous an offer as Geoffrey’s, and they were presently deep in the discussion of their plans, McVay meanwhile studying the map with unfeigned interest in the situation of his future residence. Cecilia, fortunately, gave them plenty of time for their arrangements, for she had fallen asleep again, after the alarm of the early morning, and the men must have been talking for two hours when she appeared at the library door. She cast a look of surprise at the addition to their party and Geoffrey saw with a sort of paralysis that she was inclined to set him down as the burglar whose footsteps she had heard in the night. To prevent any betrayal of this opinion, Geoffrey advanced a few steps to meet her, although as he did so, he realised that he had nothing to answer when she asked, as of course she did ask: “Who is that?” A sort of desperation, the cowardice that will sometimes attack the brave took hold of Geoffrey. He looked at her hopelessly and would perhaps in another instant have told her the truth, had not McVay, not the least disconcerted, taken the lead. “This, Cecilia,” he said exuberantly, laying his hand on the detective’s shoulder, “is my old friend Picklebody,—Henderson Picklebody. You have heard his name often enough, and he, yours, too. Eh, Henderson, in the old Machita days?” The detective, whose name was George P. Cook, was so taken up with his surprise at the apparition of a beautiful woman that he scarcely heard McVay. He began to guess something of the motives that led Holland to shield this offender against the law, nor had he ever found it unwise to yield to the whims of young millionaires. Cecilia, who was too gentle or too politic to betray the fact that she heard the interesting name of Picklebody for the first time, remarked in a tone as cheerful as she could make it: “I suppose that if Mr. Picklebody could get in we can get out now.” “Can and will,” rejoined McVay beamingly. “Hen comes as he has always come to his friends, as a rescuer.” “I seem to require a great deal of rescuing,” said the girl, looking up at the monopolist in the art who had so far said nothing. “Ah, but you don’t understand, my dear,” went on McVay ruthlessly cutting into the look which the lovers were exchanging; “You don’t yet understand how fortunate we are in our friends. Henderson did not, it is true, come to find me. It was the greatest coincidence his meeting me here. It seems that he and Holland are both interested in a mine in Mexico, and what do you think?” McVay paused and rubbed his hands; “Really, we have the kindest friends; they have been arranging between them to offer me a job down there. What do you think of that?” Cecilia who had been trying to imagine any future after they left the shelter of the grey stone house, would have answered if she had been thoroughly candid that she thought Mexico was a terribly long distance away, but she only observed: “How very kind of them. I am sure we shall like Mexico.” “There, there, do you hear that? ‘We.’ Gentlemen,” cried McVay, throwing up his hands, “I cannot leave my sister alone,—deserted. Consider it all off.” “Oh, I wasn’t to go?” asked Cecilia, looking up with more enthusiasm. “My dear,” replied McVay, “I must own that I was base enough to consider a plan that would separate us. The mine, it seems, is no place for ladies. But we will think no more about it. I see by your manner that your feelings...” “Dear Billy,” said the girl gently, “you must not give it up. You know that I can always go to the Lees, until—until I get a position. And nothing is so important as that you should have work that is satisfactory to you. Of course you must accept.” “Did you ever hear anything so noble?” asked McVay. “Yes, I suppose I ought to accept. So they both tell me. I must go, mustn’t I, Hen?” “Well, it looks like it would be better for you if you did,” replied the detective, who had fortunately his legitimate share of American humour. “There is another point, Cecilia,” McVay went on, “if I do accept, I shall have to leave at once. When did you say, Hen?” “Train to New York this afternoon,—steamer sails to-morrow.” “Oh, dear. That’s very sudden,” said Cecilia. “At a word from you, dear, I’ll give it up,” remarked McVay. “No, no, of course not. I should never forgive myself. You must go. Perhaps it is all the better that I did not know beforehand. It saves me just that amount.” “We’ve no time to lose,” remarked McVay briskly, “if we are going to try for that afternoon train. I suppose we can get a sleigh at the gardener’s, Holland, if we can struggle as far as that. Well, well, we must hurry off.” It was McVay who urged on the preparations for departure, hurrying his sister, flitting about the house at such a rate that the detective, who was of a solider build, found it hard to keep up with. Nor was it only physical agility that McVay required of the unfortunate man. Having overheard Geoffrey telling him that he was not to betray the real state of things before Miss McVay, under penalty of losing his money, McVay took special delight in making him look like a fool, calling upon him to remember happenings which existed only in McVay’s own fertile brain. “What, Hen,” he would cry suddenly, “was the name of that pretty black haired girl you were so sweet on,—you know, the daughter of the canal-boat man.” The detective, looking very much alarmed, would of course reply that he did not know what McVay was talking about. “There, there,” McVay would reply soothingly patting him on the shoulder, “I’m not going into the story of the pink blanket. You can always trust to my discretion. But I would like just to remember her name. It was so peculiar,—a name I never heard before.” The detective, who had been respectably married since he was twenty, found himself unable to remember any female names and finally in agony suggested “Mary.” “Mary, my dear fellow, no; that was your friend the paper-girl. There is nothing very unusual about Mary, is there, Holland? No, the name I was trying to think of was Ethelberta. Now you remember, don’t you?” “No, I don’t,” said the detective crossly, casting an appealing look at Geoffrey. “How sad that is,” said McVay philosophically. “You don’t even remember her name, and at one time—well, well.” Or again, he would exclaim brightly, studying the detective’s countenance. “Ah, Henderson, I see the mark of Sweeney’s bullet has entirely gone. I was afraid it would leave a scar. Tell my sister that yarn. I think it would interest her.” “Yes, do, Mr. Picklebody,” said the girl politely and McVay, when he had sufficiently tortured his victim, would at length launch out into a story himself. Miserable as the detective was under this sort of treatment, it soon appeared that McVay’s ease and facility had made an impression on him, and that he looked at his prisoner with a sort of wondering admiration. “Now, Holland, are we all ready? Cecilia, have you got your little bag?” he began when they were about to depart. “Holland, my dear fellow, don’t think me interfering if I ask whether you have looked to all the doors and windows? Tramps and thieves are so apt to break into shut-up houses, and it would be such a pity if anything happened to any of your pretty things. Ah, what an expanse of snow. Beautiful, isn’t it? You may talk about your tropical scenery, Hen, but we shan’t see anything finer than this the world over. What a contrast the south will be though, eh, old man?” and, drawing the detective’s arm through his, leaning heavily upon him meanwhile, McVay moved forward, talking volubly. Cecilia and Geoffrey hesitated a moment looking up at the house that had seen such momentous changes in their lives. “When we come back, it will be spring,” said Geoffrey softly. “Oh,” said the girl in rather a shaky voice, “you like me well enough to ask me to stay again?” “Well enough,” said Geoffrey, “to ask you to stay forever.” *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BURGLAR AND THE BLIZZARD: A CHRISTMAS STORY *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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