The Burglar and the Blizzard by Alice Duer Miller
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THE BURGLAR AND THE BLIZZARD
A Christmas Story
by
ALICE DUER MILLER
Author of "The Blue Arch," etc.
With Illustrations by Charlotte Harding
Hearst's International Library Co., Inc.
1914
[Illustration: THE BURGLAR]
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Burglar (Frontispiece)
"It was a young lady who disposed of the silver"
"Good God," he cried, "what a night you have had"
He let McVay out of the closet
She was dressed in his sister's sables--ready for departure
"Please move a little back, Holland," he said, "I want to get
nearer the fire"
"My dear fellow--pray allow me"
"I have here a slight token, in honor of the day"
I
Geoffrey Holland stood up and for the second time surveyed the
restaurant in search of other members of his party, two fingers in the
pocket of his waistcoat, as if they had just relinquished his watch. He
was tall enough to be conspicuous and well bred enough to be indifferent
to the fact, good looking, in a bronzed, blond clean-shaven way, and
branded in the popular imagination as a young and active millionaire.
At a neighbouring table a man lent forward and whispered to the other
men and women with him:
"Do you know who that is?--that is young Holland."
"What, that boy! He doesn't look as if he were out of school."
"No," said one of the women, elaborating the comment, "he does not look
old enough to order a dinner, let alone managing mines."
"Oh, I guess he can order a dinner all right," said the first man. "He
is older than he looks. He must be twenty-six."
"What do you suppose he does with all that money?"
The first thing he did with it, at the moment, was to purchase an
evening paper, for just then he snapped his fingers at a boy, who
promptly ran to get him one.
"Well, one thing he does," answered the man who had first given
information, "he has an apartment in this building, up stairs, and I bet
that costs him a pretty penny."
In the meantime Holland had opened his paper, scanned the head lines,
and was about to turn to the stock quotations when a paragraph of
interest caught his eye. So marked was the gesture with which he raised
it to his eyes that his admirers at the next table noticed it, and
speculated on the subject of the paragraph.
It was headed: "Millionaires' Summer Homes Looted," and said further:
"Hillsborough, December 21st. The fourth in a series of daring robberies
which have been taking place in this neighbourhood during the past month
occurred last night when the residence of C.B. Vaughan of New York was
entered and valuable wines and bric-a-brac removed. The robbery was not
discovered until this morning when a shutter was observed unfastened on
the second story. On entering the watchman found the house had been
carefully gone over, and although only a few objects seem to be missing,
these are of the greatest value. The thief apparently had plenty of
time, and probably occupied the whole night in his search. This is the
more remarkable because the watchman asserts that he spent at least an
hour on the piazza during the night. How the thief effected an entrance
by the second story is not clear. During the past five weeks the houses
of L.G. Innes, T. Wilson and Abraham Marheim have been entered in a
manner almost precisely similar. There was a report yesterday that some
of the Marheim silver had been discovered with a dealer in Boston, but
that he could not identify the person from whom he bought them further
than that she was a young lady to whom they might very well have
belonged. The fact that it was a young lady who disposed of them to him
suggests that the goods must have changed hands several times. The
Marheim family is abroad, and the servants...."
Here a waiter touched his elbow.
"Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan have come, sir," he said.
"Send up to my apartment and tell Mrs. May we are sitting down to
dinner," returned Holland promptly, and advanced to meet the prosperous
looking couple approaching.
"I'm afraid we are late," said the lady, "but can you blame us? Have you
heard? We have been telegraphing to Hillsborough all the afternoon to
find out what has gone."
"You are not late. My sister has not come down yet. I was just reading
about your robbery. Have you lost anything of value?"
"Oh, I suppose so," said Mrs. Vaughan cheerfully, sitting down and
beginning to draw off her gloves. "We had a Van Dyke etching, and some
enamels that have gone certainly, and Charlie feels awfully about his
wine."
"Yes," said Mr. Vaughan gloomily. "I tell you he is going to have a
happy time with that champagne. It is the best I ever tasted."
"Upon my word," said Geoffrey, "they are a nice lot of countrymen up
there. Four robberies and not so much as a clue."
"_You_ need not be afraid," said Mrs. Vaughan rather spitefully. "In
spite of all your treasures, I don't believe any thief would take the
trouble to climb to the top of your mountain."
Holland's selection of a distant hilltop for his large place pleased no
true Hillsboroughite. As an eligible bachelor he was inaccessible, and
as a property-holder he was too far away to increase the value of
Hillsborough real-estate by his wonderful lawns and gardens.
Mrs. Vaughan's irritation did not appear to disturb Geoffrey, for he
laughed very amiably, and replied that he could only hope that the thief
was as poor a pedestrian as she seemed to imagine as he should not like
to lose any of his things; and he added that in his opinion Vaughan
ought to be starting for Hillsborough at once.
"Pooh," said that gentleman, "I can't go with the market in this
condition,--would lose more than the whole house is worth."
"You would go duck-shooting in a minute," said Holland, "and this would
be a good deal better sport."
Mr. Vaughan ignored this remark. "The thing to do," he said, "is to
offer a reward, a big enough reward to attract some first-class
detective."
"All right," said Geoffrey readily, "I'll join you. Those other fellows
ought to be willing to put up a thousand apiece,--that will be five
thousand. Is that enough? We can have it in the papers to-morrow. What
shall I say? Five thousand dollars reward will be paid for information
leading to the conviction--and so on. I'll go and telephone now," and
with a promptness which surprised Mr. Vaughan, he was gone.
When he came back his sister was in her place and they were all
discussing the burglary with interest. Mrs. May, who was somewhat older
than her brother, had some of the more agreeable qualities of a gossip,
that is to say she had imagination and a good memory for detail.
"For my part," she was saying, "I have the greatest respect and
admiration for him. Do you know he could not find anything worth taking
at the Wilsons',--after all his trouble. I have often sat in that
drawing-room myself, and wondered if they should offer me anything in it
as a present, whether I could find something that would not actually
disgrace me. I never could. He evidently felt the same way. The Wilsons
make a great to-do about the house having been entered, and tell you how
he must have been frightened away,--frightened away by the hideousness
of their things! Those woolly paintings on wood, and the black satin
parasol that turns out to be an umbrella stand."
"My dear Florence," said her brother mildly, "how can a black satin
parasol be an umbrella-stand?"
"Exactly, Geof, how can it? That is what you say all through the
Wilsons' house. How can it be! However it is not really black satin,
only painted to resemble it. The waste paper baskets look like trunks of
trees, and the match boxes like old shoes. Nothing in the house is
really what it looks like, except the beds; they look uncomfortable, and
some one who had stayed there told me that they were."
"Dear Florence," said Mrs. Vaughan, "is it not like her kindness of
heart--it runs in the family--to try and make my burglary into a
compliment, but really though it is flattering to be robbed by a
connoisseur I could forego the honour. You see you have taken away my
last hope that my very best escaped his attention."
"No, indeed, the best is all he cared for. Honestly, Jane, haven't you
an admiration for a man of so much taste and ability? Just think, he has
entered four houses and there is not the slightest trace of him."
"There must be _traces_ of him," said Geoffrey. "The Inness house was
entered after that snow storm in the early part of the month. There must
have been footprints."
"Of course," said Mr. Vaughan, "that is what makes me think that the
watchmen are in it. It's probably a combination of two or three of
them."
"Well, that lets Geoffrey out," said the irrepressible Florence. "No one
would take his watchman into any combination,--he is a thousand and two
and feeble for his age. However, there is no use in discussing the
possibility, for it is not a combination of watchmen, begging your
pardon, Mr. Vaughan. It is lonely genius, a slim, dark figure in a
slouch hat. That is the way I imagine him. Do you really suppose that a
watchman would take six pair of Mrs. Inness' best linen sheets,
embroidered in her initials, the monogram so thick that it scratches
your nose; and a beautiful light blue silk coverlet,--all just out from
Paris. I saw them when she first had them."
"What," said Geoffrey, addressing the other male intellect present, "do
you make of the young woman who disposed of some of the Marheim silver
in Boston?"
[Illustration: "IT WAS A YOUNG LADY WHO DISPOSED OF THE SILVER"]
But it was Mrs. May who answered: "She is of course the lady of his
love--a lady doubtless of high social position in Boston. There was a
book about something like that once. He is just waiting to make one more
grand coup, rob the bank or something and then the world will be
startled by the news of their elopement. They will go and live somewhere
luxuriously in the south Pacific, and travellers will bring home strange
stories of their happiness and charm. Perhaps, though, he would turn
pirate. That would suit his style."
"I hope," said Holland, "that he won't take a fancy to rob the
Hillsborough Bank, for I consider it public spirited to keep quite a
little money there. You begin to make me nervous."
"No bank robbery would make _me_ nervous," replied his sister, "that is
the comfort of being insignificant. I have not enough money in any bank
to know the difference, and as for my humble dwelling in Hillsborough,
who would take the trouble to rifle it when Geoffrey's palace is within
an easy walk. Besides, I haven't anything worth the attention of a
respectable burglar like this one."
"Thank you," said Geoffrey, "I'm sorry I spent so much time choosing
your Christmas present a year ago."
"Oh, of course, Geof dear, that wonderful old silver is valuable, but it
is put away where I defy any burglar to find it. There is only my sable
coat, and I am going to send for that as soon as I have time to have it
cut over."
"In my opinion," said Mr. Vaughan, "the man is no longer in the
neighbourhood. He would scarcely dare try a fifth attempt while the
whole country was so aroused. You see Hillsborough has always been an
attractive place to thieves. It is such an easy place to get away
from,--three railroads within reach. A man would be pretty sure to be
able to catch a passing freight train on one of them at almost any time,
to say nothing of the increased difficulty of tracing him."
"I don't suppose he will ever be caught," said Florence. "When he has
got all he wants he will simply melt away and be forgotten. If he were
caught--"
Here she was interrupted by the waiter who laid a telegram at her plate.
It had come to her brother's apartment, and been sent down.
"Who is telegraphing me," she said, as she tore it open. "I hope Jack
has not been breaking himself."
Opening it, she read:
"Your house was entered about five o'clock this afternoon. Tea-set and
sable coat missing."
II
The next evening at seven o'clock, Holland stepped out of the train on
the Hillsborough station. He wore a long fur-coat, for the morning had
been bitterly cold in New York, and though the snow was now falling in
small close flakes, the temperature had not risen appreciably, and a
wild wind was blowing.
He looked about for the figure of McFarlane, for he had telegraphed the
old man to meet him at the train with a trap, but there was no one to be
seen. The station, which in summer on the arrival of the express was a
busy scene with well dressed women and well-kept horses, was now utterly
deserted except for one native who had charge of the mails.
"Hullo, Harris," Geoffrey sung out. "Is McFarlane here for me?"
"Ain't seen him. Guess it's too stormy for the old man," Harris replied
dropping the mail bag into his wagon.
"Then you've got to drive me out."
"What, all the way to your place? No, sir, I guess it is too stormy for
me, too."
But Geoffrey at last, by the promise of three times what the trip was
worth, induced Harris to change his mind. He stepped into the mail cart,
and having stopped at the post-office to leave the bag, and at the
stable to change the cart for a sleigh, they finally set out on their
five-mile drive.
"Guess you come up to see about Mr. May's house being robbed?" Harris
hazarded before they had gone far.
"You're a nice lot, aren't you?" returned Geoffrey. "Five robberies and
not a motion to catch the thief!"
"Oh, I dunno, I dunno, there is a big reward out to-day," said Harris,
divided between pride in the notoriety and shame at the lawlessness of
his native town.
"Yes, but not by any of you."
"Well, the boys did talk some of a vigilance committee, if any more
houses was robbed."
"They are going to wait for him to make up his half dozen."
"Well, to tell the truth," said Harris, "it seems like he only went for
you city folks, and I guess the boys thought you could better afford to
lose a few things than they could to lose their sleep. That's about the
size of it."
Geoffrey could not but laugh. "That's a fine spirited way to look at it,
I must say."
"Well," returned Harris, who appeared to have need of the monosyllable
in order to collect and arrange his ideas. "'Tain't lack of sand
exactly, either, for most of the fellows about here thinks it is a
woman."
"A woman?" cried Geoffrey, remembering the lady in Boston.
"Yes, _sir_," said Harris, "a young woman. Look at the things took. What
burglar would want sheets and a lady's coat? Besides just before the
first one happened, Will Brown, he was driving along up your way and a
young woman, pretty as a picter, Will said, slips out of the wood and
asks for a lift. Well, Will takes her some two miles, and when they got
to that piece of woods at the back of your place she says of a sudden
that she guesses she wants exercise, and will walk the rest of the way,
and out she gets, and no one has seen her since. Seems kinder strange,
no house but yours within six miles, and you away."
"It would have seemed quite as strange if I had been at home," returned
Geoffrey, amused at his imputation.
"Well," Harris went on imperturbably, "you can't tell the rights of them
stories. Will Brown, he's a liar, just like all the Browns; still this
time he seemed to think he was telling the truth. Looks like we were
going to have a blizzard, don't it?"
When they reached the McFarlane cottage, Mrs. McFarlane appeared bobbing
on the threshold. She was an old Scotch woman and covered all occasions
with courtesy. It appeared that Holland's telegram had been duly
telephoned from the office, but that her husband was down with
rheumatism, the second gardener dismissed, and the "boy" allowed to go
home to spend Christmas, so that there had been no one to send. Geoffrey
suggested that she might have telephoned to the local livery-stable, and
she was at once so overcome at her own stupidity that she could do
nothing but bob and murmur, until Geoffrey sent her away to get him
something to eat.
It was about ten o'clock, when he determined to take a turn about his
house. The next day he intended removing all valuables to the vaults of
the Hillsborough bank.
It was a long walk from the cottage, and Geoffrey, as he trudged up hill
against the wind, was surprised to find how much snow had already
fallen. He had expected to return to New York the next day, but now a
fair prospect of being stalled on the way presented itself. It took him
so much longer to reach the house than he had supposed, that he
abandoned all idea of entering it. It stood before him grimly like a
mountain of grey stone, its face plastered with snow. He walked round
it, feeling each door and window to be sure of the fastenings. Once past
the corner, the house sheltered him from the wind. He was conscious of
that exhilaration snow storms so often bring, while at the same time the
atmosphere of desolation that surrounds all shut up houses, even one's
own, took hold of him. Unconsciously he stopped and felt in his pocket
for his revolver, and at the same moment, faintly, in the interior of
the house, he heard a clock strike.
The sound was not perhaps alarming in itself, yet it sounded ominously
in Geoffrey's ears. He recognised, or thought he recognised, the bell.
It was that of an old French clock he had bought, and had never had put
in order. He had never been able to make it go, but once touching it
inadvertently he had aroused in it a breath of life so that it had
struck one,--this same sweet piercing note. Who, he wondered, was
touching it now?
Geoffrey was one of those who act best and naturally without delay. Now
he hesitated not at all. He had the keys of the house in his pocket, and
he moved quickly toward a side door which he remembered swung silently
on its hinges. It was not so much that he believed that there was any
one in the house--perhaps to the most apprehensive a burglar comes as a
surprise--but he felt he had too good grounds for suspicion to fail to
investigate.
He unlocked the door without a sound. As he stepped within, doubt was
put an end to by the patch of white light that, streaming out of the
library door, fell across the passageway before him. He stooped down and
took off his boots, and then cautiously approached the open door and
looked in, knowing that darkness and preparation were in his favour.
His caution was unnecessary, for his entrance had not been heard. The
Hillsborough theory of the femininity of the burglar instantly fell to
the ground. A man of medium size was standing before one of the
bookcases with his elbow resting near the clock; he was holding a volume
in his hands with the careful ease of a book fancier. The man's back was
turned so that a sandy head and a strongly built figure were all
Geoffrey could make out. Had it not been for a glimpse of a mask on his
face, he might have been a student at work.
So intent did he appear that Geoffrey could not resist the temptation to
make his entrance dramatic. Creeping almost to the other's elbow,
revolver in hand, he said gently:
"Fond of reading?"
The man, naturally startled, made a surprisingly quick movement toward
his own revolver, and had it knocked out of his hand with a benumbing
blow. Geoffrey secured the weapon, and seeing the man's retreat, may be
excused for supposing the struggle over.
He underestimated his adversary's resources, for the burglar, retreating
with a look of surrender, came within reach of the electric light,
turned it off, and fled in the total darkness that followed. Geoffrey
sprang to the switch, but the few seconds that his fingers were fumbling
for it told against him. When he turned it on the room was empty. The
door by which the thief had gone opened on the main hall and not on the
passageway, so that Geoffrey still had time to secure the outer door.
Next he lit the chandelier in the hall, but its illumination told
nothing. It was Geoffrey's own sharp ears that told him of light
footsteps beyond the turn of the stairs. Here Holland recognised at once
that the burglar had a great advantage. The flight of stairs from the
hall reached the upper story at a point very near where the back stairs
came up, while they descended to widely different places in the lower
story, so that the burglar, looking down, could choose his flight of
stairs as soon as he saw his pursuer committed to the other, and thus
reach the lower hall with several seconds to spare. Fortunately,
however, Geoffrey remembered that there was a door at the foot of the
back stairs. With incredible quickness he turned off the light again,
threw his boots upstairs in the ingenious hope that the sound would give
the effect of his own ascent, dashed round and locked the door at the
foot of the stairs and then at the top of his speed ran up the front
stairs and down the back. The result was somewhat as he expected. The
burglar had reached the door at the foot of the stairs, and finding it
locked was half way up again when he and Geoffrey met. The impetus of
Geoffrey's descent carried the man backward. They both landed against
the locked door with a force that burst it open. Geoffrey, on top and
armed, had little difficulty in securing his bruised foe, and marching
him back to the library where he now took the precaution of locking all
the doors.
Geoffrey, who had felt himself tingling with excitement and the natural
love of the chase, now had time to wonder what he was going to do with
his capture. He thought of the darkness, the storm, the absence of the
two undermen, and the helplessness of the McFarlanes. Then he remembered
the telephone, which, fortunately, stood in a closet off the library.
He turned to the burglar. "Stand with your face to the wall and your
hands up," he said; "and if I see you move I'd just as lief shoot you as
look at you," with which warning he approached the telephone and, still
keeping an eye on the other, rang up central. There was no answer. He
rang again,--six, seven times he repeated the process unavailingly. He
tried the private wire to the McFarlane cottage with no better result.
At this point the burglar spoke.
"Oh, what the devil!" he said mildly; "I can't stand here with my hands
over my head all night."
"You'll stand there," replied Geoffrey with some temper, "until I'm
ready for you to move."
"And when will that be?"
"When this fool of a Central answers."
"Oh, not as long as that, I hope," said the burglar, "because, to tell
the truth, I always cut the telephone wires before I enter a house."
There was a pause in which it was well Geoffrey did not see the artless
smile of satisfaction which wreathed the burglar's face. At length
Geoffrey said:
"In that case you might as well sit down, for we seem likely to stay
here until morning." He calculated that by that time, Mrs. McFarlane,
alarmed at his absence, would send some one to look for him,--some one
who could be used as a messenger to fetch the constable.
To this suggestion the burglar appeared to acquiesce, for he sank at
once into an armchair--an armchair toward which Holland himself was
making his way, knowing it to be the most comfortable for an all-night
session. Feeling the absurdity of making any point of the matter,
however, he contented himself with the sofa.
"Take off your mask," he said as he sat down.
"So I will, thank you," said the burglar as if he had been asked to
remove his hat, and with his left hand he slipped it off. The face that
met Geoffrey's interested gaze was thin, yet ruddy, and tanned by
exposure so that his very light brilliant eyes flared oddly in so dark a
surrounding. Above, his sandy hair, which had receded somewhat from his
forehead, curled up from his temples like a baby's. His upper lip was
long and with a pleasant mouth gave his face an expression of humour.
His hands were ugly, but small.
They sat for some time without moving, the burglar engaged in bandaging
the cut on his right hand with obvious indifference to Holland's
presence, Geoffrey meanwhile studying him carefully. The process of
bandaging over, the man reached out his hand toward the bookcase and,
selecting a volume of Sterne, settled back comfortably in his chair.
Holland stared at him an instant in wonder, and then attempted to follow
his example. But his attention to his book was much less concentrated
than that of his captive, whose expression soon showed him to be
completely absorbed.
They must have sat thus for an hour, before the burglar began to show
signs of restlessness. He asked if it were still snowing, and looked
distinctly disturbed on being told it was. At last he broke the silence
again.
"You don't remember me, do you?" he said.
Geoffrey slowly raised his eyes without moving--his revolver was
drooping in his right hand. He ran his mind over his criminal
acquaintance unsuccessfully, and repeated: